


We Will Never be Here Again

by Silverblind



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 05:36:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4509813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverblind/pseuds/Silverblind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The life of a Warden is a lonely one - and a criminal's is lonelier still.</p>
<p>The story of Callista Adaar and the one who would call himself Blackwall. They stood to gain everything, but the lie always stood in their way, until it didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The Deep Roads entrance gaped like the maw of some great beast before Thom, waiting to swallow him whole, its depths veiled in eternal darkness. The seal preventing anyone from getting in – or anything from getting _out_ – had long since been shattered by an unknown force, its sumptuous design unrecognizable, worn away by years of wind and rain.

His torch seemed a feeble and foolish thing now, flickering dangerously in the breeze coming from above as Thom descended into the remnants of what had once been the pride of the dwarves and one of the wonders of the world. From below came periodic blasts of warm air smelling of dust and decay. He turned around more than once, ready to double back and give up, but the looming silhouette of Warden Blackwall, black against the Storm Coast’s stark grey sky, standing guard at the entrance, made him turn back toward his goal. A chance to atone, he reminded himself as the darkness engulfed him. A chance for an honourable death. A new life.

More than he deserved.

The darkspawn found him before he could, a small group of four that lurched into view from a side passage. They hissed at his torch, hideous faces contorted in anger at the light that violated their domain. Thom’s blade was an old piece of steel from his training days, well-worn but lovingly cared for, with a sharp edge and a solid grip. Theirs were cruel iron, barbed and curved, slicing the air erratically as they charged him. He made short work of them, barely taking a cut or two before the last of them fell, black blood already cooling in the damp air of the ancient caverns. He knelt, his hands shaking as he took the vial he had brought with him, scooping enough of the viscous blood to fill it to the brim. Then he hurried back the way he had come, the precious vial clutched against his heart. The way back seemed even longer than the way in, and when at last the entrance appeared before him, the torch slipped from his fingers, clattering, forgotten, onto the dusty floor, the flame dancing, fluttering, but clinging to life still, the only light in a sea of shadows. The light of day hurt his eyes, though he was still far away. He hurried on all the same.

But where was Blackwall? Thom could do nothing but stare at the empty sky as he ascended. He had been gone but an hour, judging by the light, and the Warden had promised to remain until dusk, whereas he would move on, considering his recruit dead, or fled. But his question was answered as he came closer to the surface, the singing of clashing steel reaching his ears. Ripping his blade from its sheath, he broke into a run, pebbles rolling under his feet, only to almost stumble and fall as hisses and shrieks, all too fresh in his mind, rang out outside. Reaching the entrance, he flattened himself against the wall, the stone warm, almost alive, beneath his sweating palms, almost deaf from the rushing of his blood in his ears and the desperate pounding of his heart. The darkspawn were swarming over the small camp Blackwall had insisted they make, and Thom tried to count them, but there were too many; twenty, thirty, more? He could not tell.

From a group of Hurlock came a great war cry and a flash of silver, and he saw Warden Blackwall, hacking, slashing and cursing, his greatsword swiping through the monsters’ rank like a scythe through a field of ripe wheat.

“Maker take you, whoresons!” he bellowed, and a head went flying, landing so close to Thom that he could see the dead, black eyes staring up at him from beneath the rusted half-helm.

Thom breathed deep, the darkspawn stench all around him, tightening his grip on his blade before charging in to the open with a cry of his own, his shield raised high and the vial, his future, tucked away safely into his belt.

The first darkspawn were easy to kill. Taken unaware, they barely defended themselves before he cut them down, but as the horde realized it had a new opponent, more and more broke away from the swarm attacking Blackwall to shift their attention toward their new threat.

“Beware the blood, son!” was all Thom heard from Blackwall before he was surrounded on all sides by the hissing mass. He felt fear gripping his heart as the first hurlock charged him.

_Join us, brothers and sisters._

The words came on their own as he pushed back the attack, the Grey Warden oath Blackwall had taught him in preparation for his Joining. He slashed at the hurlock’s face, the beast hissing as it reeled, quickly pushed back by a genlock that swung low at his legs. He kicked the creature in the face, its nose spurting dark blood as it fell to its knees.

_Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant._

As the sea crashed tirelessly against the cliffs of the Storm Coast, so the darkspawn came, wave after wave, almost pressing themselves to fall under his blade. He stabbed, missed, and felt a first slash bite through his mail, blazing, white-hot pain shooting through his arm as he staggered, regaining his balance before any of the creatures could take advantage.

_Join us as we carry out the duty that cannot be forsworn._

He could see Blackwall to his left, covered from head to toe in darkspawn blood, a fierce smile on his lips as he cut and cut and cut. Thom began to push toward him. The swarm began to thin.

_And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten._

They finally met, exchanging a brief look before they faced away from each other, toward the remaining darkspawn. The creatures seemed wary now, barely a dozen remaining standing where before there had been so many, and they circled the two men slowly, hissing menacingly. Thom’s sword arm was numb and cold, his shield little more than splinters, yet with Blackwall at his back he felt the last of his strength come back. Enough to finish the fight, he hoped.

“Wait for them to charge,” Blackwall was panting, though he still stood tall and held his blade high. “Let them come.”

And come they did, all at once, and Thom cut one down, then two, but then a blade bit his thigh, the pain so sudden his blade clattered to the ground, and he fell to one knee, the weapon wrenching itself from his flesh as he regained his senses. He heard a gurgle above him and felt more than saw the darkspawn raise his blade for the final blow. He raised his shield almost instinctively, knowing full well the ruined wood and his weakened arm would do little for him now. His other hand felt the ground for his lost blade, found it, but the blood-slickened grip slipped from his grasp and out of reach. Thom closed his eyes.

_And know that one day, we shall join you._

He waited for the bite of the steel but it never came. Instead it was the sound of rending flesh – though not his own – and a hideous screech that made him open his eyes.

Above him, locked in a lethal embrace, stood Blackwall and the feebly struggling hurlock. With a half-human groan the Warden twisted his blade inside the darkspawn, and the creature was still. Thom staggered to his feet but they were already falling, the blood-soaked ground giving way with a wet sound.

“No…” his throat was dry and raw, choking on the simple word. Limping over to where Blackwall lay face down over the dead hurlock, he saw the blade sticking from the side of his breastplate. It had ripped through the chainmail and bit deep. Too deep.

Grunting with effort, Thom rolled the Grey Warden over. He could already see it was too late. Barely alive, Blackwall stared up at him, coughing once, twice, a red tide welling from his lips with every breath. He tried to speak but choked on his own blood, tried to sit but was too weak to move.

“Blackwall, please – “ the plea was as useless as the hand Thom pressed to the Warden’s side, blood oozing uncontrollably between his fingers, smoking in the cold air. Blackwall seized his forearm, smearing black blood on the plate before his grip loosened and his hand fell, limp, dead.

It was a long time before Thom could stand on shaking legs, Blackwall’s lifeless body a silver stain amongst the sea of black darkspawn blood. The high noon sun peeked between the perpetual Storm Coast clouds, coming to warm the cooling bodies that lay strewn about like so many twigs scattered by the wind.

He dressed his wounds slowly, all the while wondering what to do next, his mind reeling. This had been his chance at a new life; should he continue on to Val Chevin? Blackwall would surely have recommended it. But would the vial or darkspawn blood and his word be enough to prove he had been recruited? Not once they knew his name. To Val Chevin, and all of Orlais, he was a reviled criminal, a murderer and an oathbreaker. If he brought word of Blackwall’s demise, they would be quick to assume he had killed him, he knew.  But if he ran, he would go back to being hunted, condemned to hang. Go back to the Free Marches, then? The idea was appealing, and it had crossed his mind more than once in his years on the run; seeing Markham again, jousting, competing in the Grand Tourney… but even there the story of his crime was sure to have spread, and his face was known there, too, remembered from the melee he had won or the people he had met.

He had nothing now.

It was no use. Eventually he would be caught and hanged, it was only a matter of time. Perhaps he even had the Blight, Maker only knew. There was nothing he could do.

Thom’s gaze landed on Blackwall’s still corpse, and an idea grew, flowered, stretching its dark leaves in his mind. He refused to entertain the thought; it would be dishonouring the Wardens’ uniform, the very memory of Warden Blackwall…

Or would it?

Blackwall was an honest, noble man. He did not deserve to die. Thom Rainier, on the other hand, _had_ to die. For his crimes, and for the man he had become to live in peace. He had changed, and had made up his mind; never again would the innocent suffer by his word or deed. Perhaps that would be a worthy legacy to carry on under Blackwall’s name.

Offering the Maker a silent prayer and Blackwall an apology, Thom stood slowly, walking over to Blackwall’s corpse. The Wardens’ crest gleamed on the armour, a symbol of everything Thom had wished he had stood for all his life.

With trembling fingers, he reached for the leather straps holding the Warden’s armour together.

He fumbled like a squire at his first tourney, he who had years of experience. Thunder rolled in the distance, announcing one of the Storm Coast’s famous rainstorms. The body was already stiffening, dried blood flaking off the fine steel as Thom took it apart.

He shed his own armour slowly, conscious that he was not only shedding the last piece that remained of his military career, but also his name, his history, and his entire life.

Thom Rainier died here, but Blackwall would live on.

The rain started just as he began digging the grave; it was easier than he would have thought, as the ground was soft and bare, but his wounded arm was a painful hindrance, and he could feel blood oozing beneath the bandage as he dug. He ignored it.

He finished his work at dusk, and took the time to change the soaked dressing of his arm before tending to the body as best he could. Instead of his Warden armour, Blackwall wore Thom’s own plate, a splendid suit of finely worked Orlesian steel, the only thing that linked him to his previous life. He had kept it purely out of pride, knowing he would be easily identifiable should he ever wear it in public. This had been the first time in more than two years.

He laid Blackwall in his grave as delicately as he could, not an easy task alone. When it was done, he laid the Warden’s greatsword on his chest, folding his hands over the hilt, and placing the Silverite dagger he always carried next to the blade; some things he simply could not take. By the time the Warden was properly buried, the moon was high in the sky. He could hear animals foraging near; luckily, they were kept away by the scent of darkspawn flesh, diseased and corrupted.

There was nothing more he could do but place the Warden-Constable’s badge on the grave, although bandits were sure to take it should he leave it in plain sight. Instead Thom hid it in the hollow of a nearby oak, and came to stand before the grave. Blackwall’s armour fit him well enough, though he had been slightly taller and broader than Thom. He bowed his head and stared at the wet ground, rain pelting his head and plastering his sweat-drenched hair to his skull.

“Maker, I will carry this man’s name, and bring his nothing but honour,” he called out to the trees and cliffs, only witnesses to the scene. “Maker, should I bring shame upon this man, may I wander the Beyond for all eternity, so that I shall never know the warmth of Your embrace.”

He stayed a moment before he turned away, hoisting upon his shoulder the bag that contained everything he could carry. He cast his eyes one last time to the mound of dirt that would be his salvation.

_Maker, guide him home._

Thom Rainier died, and Blackwall left.

_In War, Victory. In Peace, Vigilance. In Death, Sacrifice._


	2. Chapter 2

 

“Blackwall? Warden Blackwall?”

He tensed up at the call, twirling his blade between his fingers, the frightened peasants he had been training trading confused looks as he faced away from them and toward the newcomers. He was surprised, however, to be greeted not by a pair of eyes, but by a breastplate; looking up, his gaze met with warm brown eyes peering down at him from a horn-framed face. A Qunari.

Her companions paced behind her, seemingly waiting for her command; an elven mage, a dwarven archer, and a dark-eyed, hard-faced woman bearing a familiar symbol, though he could not recall where he had seen it.

_Quite the group. Bounty hunters?_

The concern was legitimate. Even after all these years, there was sure to be a price on his head still. He eyed them warily from beneath his helm. He had almost been caught by bounty hunters, years before, when there was still some of Thom Rainier left within him.

But no more. Thom Rainier had died that day, on the Storm Coast.

_I am Blackwall._

“Who are you?” he stepped forward, drawing himself to his full height, which was, admittedly, not enough to even hope to match the Qunari’s. “How do you know my name?”

They did not _look_ like bounty hunters, at least, but if they were, they were very unusual ones. They had a purpose to their steps and a tranquility to their countenance, unlike the common thugs who usually took up such contracts.

“We are agents of the Inquisition,” said the Qunari. She wore heavy plate, and an intimidating greataxe was swung over her shoulder. He suddenly recalled where he had seen the symbol; in a small village, barely a few houses, drawn with care on a piece of parchment that had been nailed to the door of the mayor’s hut. ‘The flaming eye of the Inquisition’, the villagers had called it. ‘The Herald sent to save us all by blessed Andraste’.

He had forgotten about that quickly enough. He had seen too many saviours rise and fall to believe in rumours.

Now that agents were before him, however, it was another matter entirely.

“And what does your Inquisition want with me?” Blackwall asked. He had still not sheathed his blade, and his hand hung limp at his side. But he was ready.

“We have questions about the Wardens,” she replied, and he felt his blood run cold. Over the years he had traveled far and wide, both to escape any pursuers he might have had and to learn all he could about the Wardens. He had listened to fireside tales, read crumbling manuscripts in dusty libraries and questioned every veteran of the Fifth Blight he could find. He was more knowledgeable than most outside the Order itself, but a single word, a single piece of knowledge that had slipped through his fingers, could still undo years of work.

“I – “

The _twang_ of a bowstring spared him an answer – for now, at least. He raised his shield to protect both his and the Qunari’s heads, and the sharp _twack_ of the arrow finding its mark spurred him into action.

“That’s it, help or get out! We deal with these idiots first. Conscripts, to me!”

The peasants stepped forward hesitantly, raising their shields up to their noses. He saw that the Qunari had heaved her greataxe from its sheath and was shouting commands to her group, who took position with the ease of practice. He was secretly grateful. Now, at least, his recruits stood a better chance of returning home safe and whole. The bandits leapt from where they had been taking cover, charging at them with a cry.

“Hold the line!” Blackwall ordered as the first bandit crashed against his shield. Crossbow bolts streaked through the air around him, each finding its mark. He saw the Qunari’s greataxe shatter another’s bandit charge as she slammed the blade square in the man’s stomach. “Force them to attack me!”

He slashed at his attacker’s face and kicked him back, pressing him from all sides until he could find the chink between pauldron and breastplate, plunging his sword deep in the bandit’s chest. He gurgled, groaned, and with a twist of Blackwall’s blade, fell, lifeless, to the ground. The display seemed to give heart to the peasants, and they fought with renewed vigor.

With the Inquisition agents’ assistance, the bandits fell quickly, and as the last of them tried to flee he was struck by a bolt of lightning before he could go far. Blackwall heaved a sigh.

“Take back what they stole. Go home to your families,” he turned to his conscripts, wiping his blade on the dead bandit before him and freeing his own head from the suffocating confines of his helm. “You saved yourselves.”

They thanked him warmly and were on their way quickly, hoisting sacks bulging with grain upon their shoulders and no doubt eager to narrate the day’s events to their wives and children.

“Warden Blackwall.”

He wiped the sweat from his brow before turning to face the Qunari, and saw her wipe blood off her face as she approached, dashes of angry red upon the ashen field of her skin.

“May we speak now?” she asked.

“Of course,” he answered. He twirled his blade between his fingers once, twice. His instincts screamed for him to keep armed, but he quieted them and sheathed his sword. Should the Qunari or her companions become hostile, he was prepared to fight. _Four against one._ He had faced worse odds.

The questions did concern the Wardens, but they were rather simple, although what they revealed was alarming, to say the least. With the cataclysm at the Conclave, he supposed it was only natural to want to pursue every lead, even if this lead implicated the Grey Wardens. He was as evasive as he could possibly be, reciting the practiced lie that had become his life. _On the road for months. No contact with the other Wardens. Alone._

Finally the Qunari sighed and stood from where they had sat beneath the shadow of an oak. It was high noon.

“Thank you for your assistance, Warden.” Her disappointment was plain. “I’m afraid we have made very little progress.”

She gathered her companions and they turned away, already speaking between themselves. Blackwall stood unmoving, watching them go. His eyes flicked to the Breach, then returned to their retreating backs.  

“Hold a moment.”

The words had come, unbidden, and when the Qunari turned to him, one eyebrow arched quizzically, he almost kept silent. He had been living in hiding for years, fearful of what the morrow would bring. After leaving that small village, more tales of the Inquisition had reached him, each seeming more far-fetched than the last. But if what he had heard was true, maybe this was his place. They did what he had strived to do ever since he had taken Blackwall’s name, protecting the downtrodden and extending a helping hand to those who could not help themselves. Perhaps this Inquisition could help him find what he had been looking for all these years. Perhaps it could save him. He could feel them becoming impatient. He stepped forward.

“I can help.”

They traded looks, the hard-eyed woman speaking first:

“How?” she asked. “You are but one man.”

“The Divine is dead and the sky is torn. Events like these, thinking we’re absent is almost as bad as thinking we’re involved,” the words came, sincere, more passionate than he thought he could be about people he had never met, something he had never truly been a part of. “If you’re trying to put things right, maybe you need a Warden. Maybe you need me.”

Her brows furrowed at his words, and she opened her mouth to speak, but the Qunari stepped forward before she could.

“And what can a single Warden do?” she asked. “Cassandra is right; you _are_ but one man.”

“One Warden can be the rock that holds against the tide of a Blight,” he replied. “I wager this is not so different. I will fight for you. Die for you, if need be. But I will not see the world destroyed, and the truth about the Wardens must be brought to light.”

She was silent a moment, and Blackwall could see the elven mage tapping his foot, a dark look in his eyes. But then the Qunari smiled, and her smile seemed brighter than the sun itself.

“We welcome you to the Inquisition, Warden Blackwall. I am Callista Adaar.”


	3. Chapter 3

When Blackwall arrived at Haven at the Herald’s side, he could not help but think it was good to see that so many were here, side by side, fighting to save the world.

Country, race or origin mattered little here, and all skills were needed. Over the years, he had counted both elves and dwarves amongst his friends, people spurned purely due to prejudices the humans could not shake; and here, he saw a young human walking hand in hand with a blushing elven maid, and a dwarf slapping his thighs at a joke an elf had told him. It warmed his heart to see them all.

Qunari, though were another matter entirely. The few he had stumbled upon in his travels had kept to themselves, silent giants he was careful not to cross. Therefore, he could not help but question Callista when she came to see if he had settled in. Although she was Vashoth and not Qunari, as she patiently explained as they shared a drink at the tavern, she knew enough about the Qun to explain its basic concepts; she was a learned soul, who did not frown upon what she did not understand or scoff at beliefs she did not share. She was a quiet and calm woman, although her temper was fearsome when provoked. A skilled and merciless warrior, she was otherwise gentle and kind. Though he had believed her cold when they had first met, and perhaps she had been then, they grew to know each other and soon she became as warm as the summer sun, and her rare smiles were as bright.

At first glance, none would have called her a beauty. Her skin was as grey as that of her kinsmen, scarred and weathered from her years of mercenary work, her white hair tied in a simple braid she let flow over her shoulder. She liked to decorate her elegantly curved horns with beaded strings and rings of hammered bronze that made her head glimmer when the sun was high. And when her eyes were warm and her lips smiled true, the wide mouth and the square jaw only seemed part of a harmonious whole, and Blackwall could feel himself beam back in answer.

Haven was a small and cozy place, hidden away in a valley so lost in the immensity of the Frostbacks, one could almost wonder how it had ever been discovered in the first place. It provided the Inquisition with the security and comfort it needed to grow, their own world to care for and protect. Day after day new faces flooded the mountain pass, come to see the ones who had promised salvation or to lend help any way they could. The days were long when the Herald was not in the field, spent managing the new recruits and Haven’s resources, a routine Blackwall and the other companions embraced despite everything. He was glad for those weeks spent inside Haven’s high walls, for, almost every day, the companions gathered to share a pint at the tavern, and Callista always sat close to him, and they shared every laugh and every smile.

Perhaps they had grown complacent amongst the frozen peaks. Perhaps they had let their guard down after Callista closed the Breach, believing their work to be almost done. Blackwall himself almost allowed him to believe that everything could be alright again, that the threat had passed, and that, perhaps, he was one step closer to becoming the man he should have always been.

The army that appeared at the gates woke the Inquisition from its slumber, but it was too late for them to prepare. Blackwall felt everything crumble around him.

Too much noise, too many screams and sobs, and he wanted to help, he really did, though there was but one thing he could do. The armoury was a chaotic mess of soldiers around him as he entered, having barely begun to gather his plate when Callista rushed in as well, pain and rage plain on her face as she stomped her way toward where her armour hung, displayed on a mannequin, waiting for her. He approached slowly.

“Do we know who is attacking us?” he asked. When she turned to him, she seemed almost surprised to see him there, and, where before her face had been an open book, it slammed shut, and she became cold. For the first time in months, he saw the walls of ice behind her eyes go back up as high as they had been when they had first met.

“No,” she answered, buckling on her breastplate. The greaves were next. “There was no warning. They fly no banners. We were taken completely unawares.”

He knew her enough now to hear the rage still bubbling beneath her words despite her calm expression. He had never seen her in such a state. They finished preparing in silence before they left together to meet Vivienne and Varric, waiting just outside the door. All together they rushed to Haven’s gates, where Cullen was trying to direct the flow of civilians and soldiers, shouting commands and encouragements. He waved them over.

“The trebuchets are our only chance,” he told them. “They must fire if we are to have even the slightest chance of evacuating.”

“We’ll take care of it,” Callista waved through the last civilians trickling in from the valley before marching them forward. Beyond the gates, they could see swarms of red templars; wherever Blackwall looked, he saw deformed creatures covered in lyrium crystals, or crazed soldiers that barely even seemed human. He could scarcely believe his own eyes. The heavy sound of Haven’s gates rumbling closed behind them brought him back to his senses, and he raised his shield high.

“Defend the trebuchets!”

He charged first, Callista at his side and the others at his back. Now that they knew their enemy to be the crazed Templars, it was easier, not as frightening, although none of them doubted the fact that they were fighting for their lives, and the lives of all who had stayed behind the walls.

From then on it was a flurry of blood and wind and snow, monster after monster cut down, blow after blow after blow. Blackwall’s only concern was Callista; she was at his side, always, a war cry on her lips and her axe a blur of silver as her enemies fell. Savage, skillful, one with her blade, she looked as if she could have taken the entire army on by herself.

_Maker, but she is beautiful._

The thought almost made him stop dead in his tracks, but he snapped back to reality immediately, pushing onward toward the next trebuchet, the thought still swirling in his head. He looked at her, and with every enemy she felled she became fiercer and more beautiful; she had always been, truly. Soon the fighting was too intense for him to think, and he was almost grateful; there would be time to sort out his feelings later, to think things through – at least, he hoped there would be.

The last trebuchet fired at last, crashing amongst the marching horde, cries and shouts rising from their ranks. A sizeable force of Templars still remained, but now, it almost seemed like they had a chance; Blackwall almost allowed himself to hope, but a roar sounded, echoing off the cliffs and trees, fearsome and as loud as a thousand clashing soldiers, and they were running again, a creature of legend on their heels, the flying terror that could have engulfed all of Haven in the shadow of its wings.

They threw themselves through Haven’s gates before they slammed shut, but, of course, it did little to stop the dragon as it soared easily over the walls, although why it did not yet attack they could not tell. The red Templars were already spilling inside from where they had climbed over the village’s meager fortifications, surrounding the Inquisition on all sides. All seemed lost.

The frightened faces that greeted Blackwall’s gaze as the Chantry’s heavy doors closed behind him and his companions were a painful reminder of their failure to stop the army’s advance. Some cried, others prayed, but most were silent, sullen, their eyes darkened by grief and fear.

He looked to Callista as she wiped the blood and sweat from her face, her Vitaar but a spill of colours across her cheeks now, her eyes burning with the rage of the powerless. He would have liked nothing more than to kiss her then.

Cullen paced the crowded hall, formulating plan after plan and rejecting every last one of them. The Templars could be heard outside the barricaded doors, cursing and howling.

“There’s nothing to do.”

“Perhaps we could – “

“No. that is pure madness.”

“There is a path,” the voice came, thin, frail, bringing hope. Blackwall saw that it was the Chancellor, so spiteful before, who had spoken. Now he was frightened and wounded, like the others. “You wouldn’t know it unless you had done a summer pilgrimage…”

Callista was at his side in an instant, listening intently, and Blackwall hovered near. What he heard chilled him to the bone; a mad plan, salvation for the Inquisition but certain death for the four of them that would charge into the cold. The only way. Of course, every single one of the Inquisitor’s companions had known death was a possibility, but hearing it said still stirred within Blackwall the primal fear of the unknown. To rush headlong toward one’s demise was a strange feeling indeed.

_Maker, is this enough? Have I atoned? Dying to allow these innocents to live… is this enough?_

He closed his eyes, and breathed deep. The Chantry smelt of wet leather, incense, and fear.

_Blackwall, is this enough?_

When he opened his eyes, Callista was before him.

“We’re heading out,” she said firmly. The Anchor on her hand glimmered like an emerald. “To the last trebuchet. We bury Haven, and the red Templars with it.”

The rest she left unsaid.

They gathered near the door, Iron Bull and Sera and all those who had joined the Inquisition’s cause. Hasty goodbyes were exchanged, handshakes and nods and words of encouragement, but quickly they were ushered away to prepare for the evacuation, and Callista, Blackwall, Varric and Vivienne were left to themselves. They were silent, lost in their own thoughts and memories.

_Say something now. This is the day you die. Say something. Anything._

But the moment had passed. The doors were open.

Haven was afire, the night made almost as bright as day by the flames that devoured the village. But they could see their last hope standing tall where they had left it, all wood and rope and needing only to be aimed. They fought through waves after waves of Red Templars to reach their goal, and when they were done there was a sea of corpses around them.

“Fire!” Varric shouted, struggling to be heard above the dragon’s roar and the army’s cries. “Do it!”

Callista approached the lever, but the winged shadow swooped down upon them, and they were thrown back, cut off from the Herald by the dragon’s massive body.

“We have to go back!” Blackwall shouted as he stood from where he had been thrown. One of his legs had been twisted, though it did not seem broken. Pain lanced through his thigh and calf all the same.

“We can’t!” Varric shot back. “We’ll be killed!”

The dragon’s tail swept the ground menacingly before them, seemingly waiting for them to step forward. The main body of the army was dangerously close now, and the ground shook with every step they took. The wind rose around them, snow billowing down from the peaks to come blind them.

“We can’t leave her to die – “

“We have no choice,” Vivienne’s voice was, for once, devoid of its usual venom, soft, almost sad. She did not sneer when Blackwall looked at her. “We still have a chance to save ourselves, continue the Inquisition’s work. We can do nothing for her now, but pray.”

She was right, of course. He let himself be led away, and it seemed he could almost hear her voice on the wind that whipped at his face, a reminder of what he had lost.

_Maker, if this is the price to pay for your forgiveness, it is too high._

The wind howled and the trebuchet fired.

Callista died.


	4. Chapter 4

****

“Make way! Make way!”

Cullen’s voice ringing through the camp woke Blackwall from a fitful sleep. Sitting up, he saw a group of soldiers carrying a makeshift stretcher into camp, disappearing quickly into one of the infirmary tents. He laid back down, the pallet hard and lumpy beneath him, and shut his eyes. Probably another soldier they had found miraculously spared by the avalanche Callista had unleashed. Another lucky soul.

_Callista_. Her name was hard to say out loud, and thinking about her only brought pain. Many still believed her to be alive, but how could she be? It had been more than half a day since he had last seen her, facing down the dragon that had fallen upon her. He had been the first to volunteer when Cullen had asked for a party to ride to Haven – or what was left of it. What they had found – charred wooden beams sticking from fresh white snow and ruined banners fluttering in the breeze – had left little hope of finding anyone alive. He had hoped too much in his life, and lost everything. It was best he come to terms with her death now. Hope only ever brought pain.

But suddenly there was a cry from the crowd, a cry that made him jump to his feet.

“It’s the Herald! She’s alive!”

Before he knew it he was running, elbowing his way through the gathered bystanders and pushing into the tent.

“Where is the healer? Is there elfroot left in stock still?” Cullen was flitting about, to and fro. His eyes met Blackwall’s, and he waved him over. “Come, help. We need every hand.”

He approached the bed where she lay, unmoving. Her lips were blue as frost, her eyes closed. He could almost have believed her dead if not for the irregular rise and fall of her chest. Relief flooded his heart, and he could not help a small smile. There was not much time to rejoice, however, as he was pulled aside and given instructions.

He did as he was told, lifting, fetching, watching. Others came and went, or came and stayed, but he barely acknowledged their presence, all his attention focused on Callista. She still had not moved an inch, and her mark was blazing with an intensity he had never seen before, almost blinding those who looked directly at it.

He could not leave her again, not so soon.

Eventually all her wounds had been cleaned and dressed and she was left to recover, the tent suddenly empty but for Blackwall and Mother Giselle. She looked up from where she sat at Callista’s bedside, watching the Grey Warden for a long time before she spoke.

“Perhaps you should rest too,” she suggested soothingly. He shook his head.

“I need to watch over her,” he answered. He felt empty, haggard. “We – I left her behind. How could I leave her behind?”

_Too high_.

Giselle sighed.

“You did what you many could not do; survive,” she said. “You would have been no use dead. Now you are both here, and you both must recover. Please, rest.”

He knew she was right. His whole body was crying out for a night’s sleep, pain still running through his injured leg with every step he took. The fighting was finally taking its toll as his fears were put to rest and the adrenaline finally drained from his blood. He nodded, stepping closer.

“I just… may I have a moment?”

Her gaze softened, and he could almost have sworn a knowing glint passed over her face.

“Of course.”

She stood, leaving him with Callista. He limped over to where Giselle had been sitting, sighing once he was sat next to the bed.

He reached slowly for the hand he saw resting above the covers, pressing her icy, calloused fingers between his palms. In her sleep, her mouth was too wide again, her jaw too square. It mattered little.

_Maker, I will pay any price. Any price but_ her. _Too high._

He raised her hand to his mouth, brushing a kiss over her knuckles, scraped and scarred as they were, and her skin warmed with his breath. He dared nothing more.

He placed her hand back at her side before he stood, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead and leaving her to dream her secret dreams.

 

* * *

 

Callista woke almost an entire day later, the gathering dusk setting the Frostbacks aflame with its orange and yellow light. She was weak and shivering still, but mostly intact, apart from some bumps and scrapes. Blackwall welcomed her back warmly, but otherwise kept his distances, unsure of what he should say. He had left her to die, yet she did not seem upset in the least. And although they did not speak, every time she saw him, she smiled, a small, secret smile just for him, and the mountain wind suddenly did not seem so cold anymore.

Within a few days she was up and about again, visiting the wounded, helping distribute food to the refugees and planning with her advisors, while he helped around the camp however he could. It wasn’t until a few days later that she came to him. The sun had just set, and he was sitting at a campfire, grateful for some rest. She sat next to him and he was surprised to see her, although not unpleasantly so.

“We’re leaving at dawn,” she said, gazing into the fire.

“To go where?” he asked, surprised. “We have nothing.”

“Or so we thought,” she answered, holding her hands out to the fire, allowing the flames to warm her palms. “Solas knows of a place. To the North. Skyhold, he calls it.”

They were silent for a moment, only disturbed by the crackling of the fire. Then she turned to him, her usual calm self. Her eyes were impossibly warm, and the firelight made her skin gleam like gold.

“I am glad,” she began. He saw her fingers flex, her eyes flutter closed for half a heartbeat before they opened again. “That you left when you did, at Haven. If you hadn’t…”

She turned her gaze upward, where the stars had begun to appear.

“One of us wouldn’t be here,” she concluded. “Though I’m not sure which.”

Her eyes returned to him, and her hand rose slowly, carefully, giving him plenty of time to pull away, should he so choose. He almost did, but remained still after all.

She laid her hand against his cheek, her long fingers tangling in the hair behind his ear, thumb stroking lightly over his cheekbone, feather-light but confident. He leaned slightly into her touch, his hand almost rising to keep her there, but then she smiled and was gone. The heat of her touch lingered for hours, and, with her gone, the night was darker than it had ever been.

 

* * *

 

The trek to Skyhold was difficult, days of marching taking a toll on the Inquisition and its followers. The nights were short and cold, the days long and colder still. But when finally the castle appeared, so close that they could almost reach out and touch it, it was more than Blackwall had ever hoped.

Tall towers, poised like claws ready to tear at the skies, rose from an imposing keep, empty and abandoned. Rubble littered most of the courtyard and many rooms were as yet inaccessible, but Skyhold was a welcome sight nonetheless, a place the Inquisition could make theirs, the place where the fight against Corypheus, as Callista had informed them the creature that had attacked them was named, could truly begin.

There was dancing and singing in the courtyard that evening, the revelers gathering what little strength they had left to celebrate the end of their search for a new sanctuary. Blackwall watched them from afar, the people twirling around the bonfire seemingly as tall as giants as they spun and leapt, the flames crackling in time with their merry songs. He wished he had the heart to join them, but his gaze was perpetually drawn to the room the Herald had been given for the night, and the candle he could see flickering at her window. After what seemed like an eternity, the feeble flame flickered and died, and he stood from where he had been sitting alone in a shadowed corner of the courtyard, slowly making his way toward the great hall.

The room was packed with refugees and soldiers, every last inch of the solid stone floor covered in bedrolls and tents. He picked his way through the crowd, bending down to help wherever he could before finding his place.

He laid awake for a long time, listening to the sounds around him as thoughts of Callista whirled through his head. It had been a long time since he had let anyone in. There had been a few over the years since he had begun his lie, women he would have come to call friends, perhaps, if the circumstances had been different. Never had he let any of them hold him, however. Both for their sake and his, he had always left, whispering empty promises to return. He never had.

Now, though, he wanted to stay, see this through, and fight to the end. And Callista…

She was the beacon guiding him forward toward his salvation – or his doom, though he could not find it in himself to care so long as she was by his side – and the hot flame in the ice that had encased his life for years. She had given him a purpose he had not even known he had been looking for, a goal, a _chance_. He felt human again when he was with her.

But he could not allow himself to grow closer to her than he already was. His name, his entire identity and all they shared was a lie, a lie that would destroy him, and her, should he ever be discovered. Yet never had he wished he could give in to his desires half as much as he did now. She was close, so close that he could hear her laugh and see her smile, but she would always be out of reach for Blackwall, for _Thom Rainier_. It was better this way.

Blackwall did not sleep that night, haunted by warm brown eyes and the phantom feeling of a rope around his neck.


	5. Chapter 5

The Inquisitor and her companions flew from battle to battle, always victorious, welcome wherever they went, hailed as heroes by the populace and cursed as usurpers by the mighty. Blackwall could almost have laughed at how different this was from his life without Callista. It used to be that, whenever they saw a lone Grey Warden ride into their village, people barred their doors and hid their children, refusing him food or shelter so that he would move on quickly. But now, peasants and nobles alike welcomed him with open arms, begging for stories, offering bread and salt and naming him in their prayers. He would never have thought a Grey Warden could be borne so high outside a Blight.

But it all came crashing down at Adamant.

“They Grey Wardens of southern Thedas must return to Weisshaupt,” even after what they had gone through in the Fade, Callista’s words made Blackwall’s blood run cold with dread. It was quickly replaced by anger. “It is the only way to ensure Corypheus will not corrupt them again.”

“And me?” he stepped forward. He understood her decision, why they had to leave, but he could still not shake the outrage. When she turned to him, however, calm and still but for the glint of sadness in her eyes, he felt the flames of his rage flicker, though they did not die. “What about me?”

“You have proven yourself to be a steadfast ally to the Inquisition – to me. You may stay and help, if that is your wish,” she answered. Her eyes hardened again, and her words were steel when she spoke. “But the others must leave.”

And so it was. The Wardens were sent off to Weisshaupt with an Inquisition escort, and the Order, lifted to unprecedented heights by the Hero of Ferelden, was torn down to the dust once more.

The journey back to Skyhold was silent and morose, on Blackwall’s part at least. Varric chattered as usual, and Vivienne was not afraid to make her opinion known, but he paid them no heed, his gaze fixed ahead to where the tall, horned silhouette of the Inquisitor could be seen riding next to Cullen. His heart felt empty, black and charred by betrayal.

* * *

 

The barn had become a refuge of sorts for Blackwall. No one but horsemaster Denett and his stablehands ever came, although Callista had become a sight almost as frequent as Blackwall himself.

He had tried to distance himself from her over the months since the Inquisition had taken over Skyhold, but had failed miserably, allowing her more and more into the world of the intensely private person he had become over the years. They liked to talk long into the night about anything and everything; she smiled more during those stolen hours than she ever did in a week, and her eyes were softer than they ever were when the sun shone high, her hands always reaching for his, the barest of brushes or the earnest grasp of her fingers on his enough to make him stutter like a flustered boy asking a pretty milkmaid to dance. He always waited for her after sunset, and she almost always came.

But as he climbed the stairs to his makeshift bedroom that night, he hoped it would not be the case. They had ridden through the gates but an hour past, reporting to Leliana and Josephine before going their separate ways. All the while, Blackwall had felt Callista’s eyes on him, which was why he knew that, despite his wishes, he would see her sooner rather than later, though he still did not know what to tell her.

He heard her before he saw her, the heavy clanking of mail and plate telling him she had not even taken the time to remove her armour before she came to see him. He had just removed the last of his own plate when he heard her climb the stairs, her heavy footfalls reaching the landing before they approached, closer and closer, stopping but a few paces away. He refused to face her, not quite sure he could control the tight ball of anger he felt beating inside his throat if he did.

“Blackwall.” Her voice soothed him like nothing ever could, and he felt himself become calmer;  although the anger still lurked somewhere deep within, it would not spill from him like a gout of flame. He clenched a fist and breathed deep. Behind him, she smelled of dust and leather and steel. “You know why I did it.”

A heartbeat passed, then two. He exhaled noisily.

“I do,” he answered, opening his eyes. The moon was almost full. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

A stifled chuckle, humorless and dry, rang out behind him.

“Fair enough,” she conceded. He heard her take half a step closer. “I know the Wardens are important. I haven’t forgotten the Blight. But for now, the greater threat is Corypheus. We cannot allow the Order to fall to him.”

He sighed, finally turning to face her. She had wiped the Vitaar from her face, and he saw that she had not even taken the time to leave her greataxe in the armoury before coming to him. It loomed over her head, as threatening as ever. He stepped closer.

“I know all of that,” he replied. “But knowing my brothers and sisters are exiled – _again_ …” A sigh. “But I understand. Maker knows, I’ve had enough difficult decisions to make in my life to understand.”

“I’m glad.” Her smile was small, a secret for him to keep. He could not return it, not yet, but he lost himself in her gaze. She extended a mailed hand, and he took it, a gesture of peace, but before he knew it she had pulled him to her and leaned down to put her lips against his. He almost stepped back, surprised, but her hands on his shoulders kept him where he was, and he felt himself kiss her back.

It was as sudden as lightning and rain, though it was sweet as a summer wind as well, a tingling in his lips that spread to his whole body, leaving a trail of cold fire in its wake.

 _Maker, I’ve longed for this_.

He could not deny it, even to himself. In the dark of the night he had dreamed of her, of this, and more. His hands sought her waist and brought her closer when they found it, his mouth opening when he felt her tongue against his lips. Her fingers twined in his hair before they parted, and she laughed breathily, a sound so rarely heard from her. He almost smiled in answer, wanted to, more than anything, but his mind was racing. Part of him wanted to reach out to her, give in. it would have been a lie to say that it was not what he wanted most, in that moment. Her hair was spun silver in the light of the moon, more beautiful now, it seemed, than she had ever been before. But he knew he could not allow himself to give in to her. He had been living a lie for years. He loved her too much to drag her down into this hellish pit with him.

 _Love_. The word rang loud and long in his mind, stabbing at his heart. It seemed it was too late.

 _Thom, you old fool_.

His hands were heavy as lead as he reached for her shoulders, pushing gently until she stepped back, the fingers tangled in his hair disappearing slowly, leaving behind only the glaring absence of her touch.

“Blackwall…?”

He could not look her in the eye. The confusion in her voice barely veiled the hurt he heard cloaked beneath. He almost drew her back into his arms, but she shook his grip from her shoulders before he could do anything, stepping back, and he finally looked up at her.

“I – “

“I should go,” she cut him off. She was boiling inside, he could see it. From anger or sadness, however, he could not tell. “I apologize.”

“Callista… I'm sorry.”

She was already gone, the wooden stairs creaking beneath her steps as she left him standing where he was, alone.

_If this protects her from me, then so be it._

He looked at her as she crossed the yard. She did not look back.

* * *

 

Callista grew cold again.

Blackwall doubted the others noticed, so subtle was the change; her few smiles became rarer still in his presence, their conversations became short, never unfriendly, but never as warm as they had been, silence falling over them quickly, months of stilted speech. Something had been lost. It was small, but it had held them tightly together, a spark smothered by the wind.

_You did the right thing._

The blood on his hands and the stain on his soul was something he could never share with anyone, least of all her. The burden was his to carry, and his alone. Perhaps he had broken her heart. Better that than knowing the truth. But he did not need to ask himself where the hole in his own heart had come from.

Once this was done, once Corypheus was dead and the world whole again, he could leave, and she could forget.

_Time heals all wounds._

* * *

 

Herald’s Rest was full to bursting that evening, the people of Skyhold having gathered to celebrate another of their Inquisitor’s victories. They sang and danced and laughed and drank, Corypheus for once all but forgotten as they let drink and joy carry them away. Blackwall was content to sit away from the main group, drinking an ale that reminded him of Markham and his youth. He could see Callista, towering above the crowd in the middle of the room, accepting every praise and thanks with a bow of her head.

She was careful not to look at him, but he could not keep her eyes off her.

The kiss they had shared after Adamant haunted his nights and clouded his days, though it was the memory of the sadness in her eyes more than what she had made him feel that he could not shake. He could not help but question his decision, lying awake night after night; his secret was safe. What harm could be brought from giving in?

_Plenty._

He forced his gaze away from her, and took a sip of his ale. He ought to leave, not burden her with his presence -

“So, Hero,” Varric interrupted his thoughts, having wandered over from the group, dragging a chair behind him. Blackwall almost sent him away, but Varric had settled next to him before he could say a single word. “What did you do?”

The question caught him off-guard. He almost choked on his ale.

“Beg your pardon?”

“What did you do,” Varric repeated, “to her?”

He waved his hand toward the group in the middle of the room, though Blackwall would have had to be daft not to know what he meant. Blackwall saw Iron Bull lean toward Callista, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh. His grip tightened around his tankard, but he chose to observe a sullen silence. Varric _always_ got his way.

“I see,” he said after a moment, and the smug smile on his lips would have been enough to send Blackwall into a rage, had he been anyone else. “So the fact that she practically trips over her own feet to avoid you means nothing? Or the fact that you look like someone’s stabbed you in the ribs every time she does? What the hell happened between you two?”

“I think you should mind your own business,” Blackwall mumbled into his ale, swirling it about his tankard.

“And I think a slap from Bull might help you come back to your senses,” Varric shot back, slapping an open hand on the table. He sighed, settling back into his seat. “Listen. I don’t want to know the specifics, but you two look as miserable as dogs left in the rain, any idiot could see that. And I don’t like to see my friends miserable.”

 _Friend._ He could not recall the last time anyone had called him that. _Years ago. When I was still Rainier._

“I – “

“Way I see it,” Varric cut him off, “we might all be blown to bits tomorrow, or the day after that, or maybe in a week. Who knows? When an ancient Magister threatens to destroy the world, why not take all the happiness you can get?”

They were silent for a long time. The inn was quieter now. It seemed like hours had passed before Varric spoke again.

“I was in a similar situation once,” he began slowly. “What I wanted was right in front of me. I just had to reach out, take it… I didn’t. I thought I couldn’t.” for half a heartbeat, his voice broke. But he steadied himself quickly. “I’ve never regretted something so much in my life. I don’t want that to happen to you.”

For the first time since the beginning of their conversation, Blackwall looked at him. He was lost in his memories, it was plain to see, his face twisted in an unconscious frown.

“What was her name?” Blackwall asked, quietly.

Varric opened his mouth to speak, clenched a fist, and shook his head. When he looked up, a hollow smile stretched his lips.

“Doesn’t matter. What matters is, I’ve seen the way you look at her; this is your chance. Take it, or don’t your choice, Hero… but choose, and soon.”

He stood from his chair, draining the last dregs of ale in the tankard he had brought with him. He slammed the empty mug on the table and threw a copper next to it.

“She will live, with or without you,” were his parting words. “There’s a fork in her road, and you can steer her towards you, or away. But don’t prevent her from moving on because _you_ can’t.” He left the inn.

The crowd had thinned by then, only a handful of people remaining where there had been so many before. Callista sat with the Chargers, playing what looked to be a rather fierce hand of Wicked Grace. It had been a long time since Blackwall had seen her smile so wide.

When she looked up and caught his gaze, however, her smile faltered, almost disappearing before she caught herself, though her smile was now cold, her eyes veiled. He saw her excuse herself, standing to leave despite the mercenaries’ loud protests, shooting him one last look before she was out the door and into the night.

 _Choose_.

He needed this. _Her._ Perhaps it was selfish – no, it _was_ selfish of him to want her. But he had never felt more alive – _real –_  than when she had kissed him that night, and he stood and followed her, all the same, cursing himself.

The cold wind of the night was like a wolf’s bite after the stuffy, too-warm air of the inn, and he shivered. She was across the courtyard already, climbing the stairs to the great hall, and he followed at a brisk pace. He could barely think, but he refused to turn back. A chance to feel alive – _human –_ again, for the first time in years, with her. He could tell her the truth when all this was over, and then she would be free to choose what she wanted. Or perhaps he could tell her now, but what would she do? Send him away? Hand him over to Orlais to face justice? Or -

He caught up to her before he could decide what to do, opening the door to the stairs leading to her quarters, closing the door behind his back loud enough that she would hear it. Already halfway up, he saw her stop in her tracks before she turned around. A shadow passed over her face when she saw him standing there, but her voice was quiet.

“Blackwall,” she greeted him. Curt. Cold.

“Callista.” He willed the name from his throat, not daring to take a single step forward. “I… We should talk.”

She arched a brow, her fingers rapping a rapid rhythm on the wooden handrail. In the torchlight, the proud curve of her horns sent strange shadows dancing upon the walls.

“What’s this about?” she asked.

“Adamant,” he answered bluntly. “Or, rather, what happened after.” The ale had made him bolder.

He saw her stiffen, and her voice was pure ice when she answered.

“I don’t believe there to be anything to discuss. You made your point perfectly clear.”

“No,” he shot back. Her brows furrowed in confusion. “No, I don’t believe I have. Please, allow me to explain.

She was frozen for a long time, her eyes fixed on him as he held his breath, waiting for her answer. He had made his choice; now she had to make hers.

Finally, she sighed, closed her eyes and turned away.

“Come up,” she said, and he climbed after her.

* * *

 

The chamber was sparse, rarely used but comfortable nonetheless, and clean. She led him over to the balcony, leaning over the guardrail for a moment as he stood in the doorway, watching her. The moon was thin and the night was dark, the star-dusted sky veiled by a sea of rolling back clouds. It was sure to rain before morning. He saw her breathe deep before she turned to him, crossing her arms, her face a smooth, impassive mask as she waited for him to speak.

“The other night was… unexpected,” he began. “You took me by surprise, and I reacted poorly, I know.”

He ran a hand through his hair, sighing. She did not move an inch, still as stone as he fumbled for words.

“The truth – “ _Something you’ve not told for a long time_. “The truth is – “ _I’m a wanted criminal. I bear a dead man’s name and a title that is not mine to bear._

 _I love you_.

“I’ve never wanted someone as much… as much as I want you,” the words came tumbling out suddenly, pressing themselves at his lips, like a torrent bursting from the side of a mountain. He saw her fingers curl into half-fists. He could not stop. “Back then, I wanted to give in. Maker knows how much I wish I could. I’m not what you want. I could never be what you deserve.” The words hurt him to say, but he had to try, make her see, warn her. Even if he could not yet tell her the truth, then perhaps she would decide to leave him behind all the same. “There’s nothing I can offer you. You’d have no life with me – “

Her lips on his silenced him, and his eyes fluttered shut. If she would have him, for now, then he could no longer deny her. Angling his head up, he pressed her against the parapet of the balcony, reaching up to touch a palm to her cheek. She tasted of honey and wine, warm despite the cold night air. The fingers that buried themselves in the fine hair at the nape of his neck were hot as coals, the hand that pressed against the side of his face scorching him like molten steel. She drew him impossibly closer, and took all of him into the warmth of her arms, the scars she had yet to discover and the deeds she had yet to learn, all that he was and ever would be.

He sighed against her lips as they parted, a chuckle rumbling deep in his throat as she threaded her fingers through his hair, slowly, lightly.

“I don’t care about any of that,” she whispered. “I want you with me, always. That will never change.”

He rested his head against her collarbone, breathing her in. she smelled of wood and warm sand and wet leaves. He tightened his hold on her waist and looked back up at her, allowing a smile to bloom upon his lips. For once, the voices of his mind were silent.

“We’ll regret this, my Lady.”

She laughed, sweetly, and he kissed the smile from her lips, the night wind howling around them as if to tear them apart. But he had never felt so whole.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is weird... according to calculations, it should take several weeks to travel from Val Royeaux to Skyhold. But the party seems to do it in a few hours, at most a day or two. So... it may be a bit wonky in that regard. Sorry.

The months flew by in a daze, the final fight against Corypheus growing ever closer while the Inquisition’s power grew with each passing day. Blackwall could scarcely believe he had contributed, in his own small way, to the rise of what had become a beacon of hope for so many in Thedas. Although the worst was yet to come, it did not seem so daunting with Callista at his side.

They had spent their time discovering each other, growing together as they shared more of their stories, dreams and apprehensions. Even though she could not know the whole truth – yet – he was as honest with her as he could, and every time a lie escaped his lips his heart sank more and more. He did not plan to lie to her longer than he truly had to. As soon as Corypheus laid dead at her feet, he would tell her everything. Then she would decide what he deserved, and he would submit to her will.

But then, fate did have a way of forcing his hand.

Blackwall rarely went to the rookery. The birds’ cawing was as loud as clashing steel, and the constant rustling of their feathers made him uneasy. Their beady eyes always followed him wherever he went, as if eager to lay his secrets bare and whisper them into Leliana’s ear – and Maker knew he had plenty of dangerous secrets.

But when one sought Leliana, one was sure to find her amongst her birds, he reminded himself that morning as he climbed the stairs to the top of the tower. That morning, however, the rookery was deserted, except, of course, for the ravens. They muttered amongst themselves as Blackwall emerged from the stairwell, ruffling their feathers and shifting upon their perches like so many gossiping fishwives in a market.

“Hello?” he called out, the only answer the cawing of disturbed ravens. “Anyone there?”

His steps took him to the table where Leliana usually sat; the chair was empty and the table, bare, save for a few papers that must have been judged unimportant. Some were written in tongues he did not understand, and the rest were reports of least importance. He leaned against a stack of crates that had been piled before the desk and could not help but look the letters over idly, catching a word of two here and there, until a familiar name jumped from the parchment, and he shot up, his hand reaching forward to dig the paper from the pile before he could stop himself.

Lieutenant Cyril Mornay, one of the soldiers responsible for the Callier massacre of 9:37, was captured in Lydes. Like the others who were arrested for their involvement, Mornay insists he did not know who he was assassinating, and that he was just following the orders from his captain. This captain, Thom Rainier, is still at large. Mornay is to be executed within the week in Val Royeaux.

Blackwall’s hand tightened in to a fist, crumpling the report. It had been so long… he had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that, after all these years, _he_ , the captain, the officer, was the only one still  hunted, and that some of his men had successfully escaped… Mornay had been his second-in-command, the most devoted of them all. Yet he had been the only one to question Rainier when they had heard the children singing and laughing inside the carriage.

_Mockingbird, mockingbird, quiet and still, what do you see from the top of that hill? Can you see up? Can you see down?_

He had refused to strike. The others had not.

_Can you see the dead things all about town?_

With shaking fingers, Blackwall carefully folded the paper as small as he could, tucking it away into his belt. The ravens cawed and cawed as if to cry thief, their wings rattling the air. He paid them no heed and left quickly, barreling down the stairs as fast as he could. He could not let another of his men die in his place. He was done running. If he left right then, he could be at Val Royeaux before the end of the week. The execution would be public, no doubt. He could intervene, reveal himself, take the blame. And then…

And then he would be hanged.

The thought was sobering, to say the least. It had been a long time since he had thought about what would happen to him should he be caught. In fact, he had not thought about it since joining the Inquisition. Since meeting Callista.

The shadows of the barn were a welcome refuge as he read the report again and again, folding and unfolding the parchment until it almost fell apart. He had to go, he knew. Perhaps this would finally be enough, to save a man who had done nothing but obey the orders of a man blinded by greed. But he could not leave Callista behind. Not without saying goodbye, at least. Whether it was for her or himself, however, he could not decide.

He packed a small bag and hid it under a pile of hay. If he left before dawn, he could still reach Val Royeaux in time. He left everything he owned where it lay. He would not need any of it anymore.

The sun was setting when Callista found him, staring at the fire he kept burning in the barn, too nervous to do anything else. If she could tell, she showed no sign of it, greeting him with a kiss. He forced a smile to his lips, taking in her face, her eyes, everything he could lay his eyes on.

_Maker, why have you put me on her path?_

“Want a drink?” he asked. “I’ve a hankering for company.”

She nodded her assent and put her hand in the crook of his arm as they crossed the yard toward Herald’s Rest. People greeted them as they passed, saluting, bowing. They smiled at him and called his name with respect and admiration.

_If only they knew._

The inn was almost empty, which was unusual, but not unwelcome. The sat in a secluded corner, and two tankards of dwarven ale were on their table before they could ask for them. He sighed, the words he had wanted to say escaping him. She arched a brow and smiled, and when she reached for his hand he squeezed her fingers and laid a kiss on her palm. He could tell her. Right then and there. She would be angry, no doubt, and he could leave in peace. With a bit of luck, she would never look for him, and so would never discover what had happened to him. But seeing her in the candlelight, smiling, serene, he could not do it.

He had always been a coward.

“A Warden’s life is a solitary one,” he said instead. The lie continued. “I never thought I’d find something that would matter to me as much as the Order.” She was silent, but he felt her thumb stroking the back of his hand, encouraging him to speak. “But then I joined the Inquisition, and I met you.”

He was silent for a moment, and she did not press him, merely drawing his hand into her lap. The shadows were deep, and half her face was in darkness. She was light and shadow both, ice and fire.

_I deserve nothing of this_.

“And now… Now I feel as if I can do anything.” He chuckled to himself, more out of sadness than joy. He doubted she noticed. “’Anything’. That’s a hard word, you know? Means a lot.”

She was looking at him like he had never thought anyone would ever do, and in the dim light of the tavern she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

She did not answer but leaned forward instead, kissing him. There was a heat to her lips he had never felt before, and something stirred deep inside him. Or perhaps it was only the thought of losing her that made him so desperate for her touch, her taste, everything she was willing to give. The hand he shook free from her grasp and placed high on her thigh made her shiver, more out of excitement than anything if the way her legs parted slightly was anything to go by. She drew him to his feet suddenly, a flame in her eyes as she spoke.

“Walk with me,” she said, and he complied, letting himself be led out the door.

Night had fallen and the courtyard was deserted as rain fell upon Skyhold, fat drops of summer rain the earth drank greedily. They ran across the yard, stopping here and there to catch their breath and kiss, heated breath and wet skin. The moon had risen, as thin and sharp as the blade of a knife. He wished the night would never end.

They entered the barn and climbed the stairs to the loft slowly, hungry for each other and starved for touch. She was cold from the rain yet she did not shiver as he guided her toward the mound of fur that was his bed, and suddenly she was almost too hot to touch, or so it seemed. He saw her raise her hands to the fastenings of her tunic, and forced himself to part from her.

_A last confession. A last warning._

“You need to know,” he whispered against her cheek as she kissed his brow, her hands working at her collar, “that I’m not worthy of you. There’s no future for us with me as a Warden.”

“No matter what comes,” she whispered, “I’ll be here, always.”

In the gloom, her eyes were almost gold, and she seemed half a goddess. He could almost believe her.

“Then for now,” he said, brushing open her half-undone tunic, revealing a sliver of scarred grey skin, “let there be nothing else. No one else. Just you, and me.”

The smile she gave him clawed at his heart, and he murmured apologies against her hair as he lost himself in her.

* * *

 

Blackwall waited for Callista to fall asleep before he rose, allowing his fingers to brush her cheek for the last time before dressing. The bag he had hidden earlier in the day was quickly retrieved, and he strapped his sword to his hip for safety. The armour he left behind.

_Plate and mail is no use to a dead man._

Heh heaved his saddle and bridle for their resting place, casting one last look at the loft where Callista slept on, blissfully unaware, and the thought of going back crossed his mind, fleeting, immediately dismissed. He had been living a lie long enough.

The horses whickered softly as he pushed open the door to the stables with his shoulder, the single lantern left burning against the far wall emitting just enough light for him to find his way. He shushed the animals as he went, and soon the stables were as still as before.

His horse was a dappled mare, strong-limbed and swift. She raised her head as her unlocked her stall, immediately nuzzling the hand he raised to pat her neck, looking for a treat.

“Afraid I don’t have anything for you today, girl,” he whispered as he threw the saddle upon her back, mindful of the stablehands sleeping in the loft above. “We have a long way to go.”

He led her out and toward the gate, the shadowed courtyard silent but for the sound of his mare’s hooves splashing in the ground left soft and wet by the rain. He saw the lanterns of patrolling guards up on the battlements, like fireflies dancing in the dark. When he came to the gate, the guards straightened and saluted him by slapping a mailed fist upon their breastplates. In the silence of the night, the sound was as loud as thunder.

“Open the gate,” he ordered.

The two young men exchanged a look, but obeyed nonetheless, if hesitantly. The portcullis ground itself upward and, after he had lead his mare through, he heard the guards lowering the gate again, until he was cut off from Skyhold.

_There is no turning back now._

Hoisting himself upon his horse, he shot a last look behind him, at the looming walls and the tall towers. Never had he been so happy than inside these walls, and never again would he see this place.

With a click of this tongue, the mare was off, and Blackwall left behind everything he had ever wanted, and everything that could have been.

* * *

 

The road between Skyhold and Val Royeaux was well-traveled and safe, inns and guard posts having sprouted from the previously sparsely inhabited region as the Inquisition’s influence grew and more and more pilgrims decided they had to see the Inquisitor’s seat for themselves.

Without his armour and Callista by his side, Blackwall was just another face in the crowd, nameless, quickly forgotten. He was grateful for that much, at least. By now, Callista was sure to have launched a search for him, and he could not allow those she had sent after him to stop him.

He rode into Val Royeaux at daybreak after two days of riding, mist still clinging to the cobblestones as the sun rose over the river. The city was as beautiful as ever, already waking from its slumber as servants and maids were already rising for the day, scurrying to fetch whatever their masters required for their breakfast. The Summer Bazaar itself was, however, still deserted at such an hour.

Blackwall could not fail to notice the gallows that had been erected in the square, and as he rode closer he saw a proclamation nailed to the boards of the platform, hanging limp and slightly moist with dew.

_Cyril Mornay_

_To be executed at midday_

_Friday of the second week of Justinian_

_For the murders of_

_Vincent Callier_

_His wife_

_His children_

_And his retinue_

_Friday._ On the morrow. To know his death to be so close send a chill running down his spine, though it did nothing to weaken his resolve. This was the right thing to do. He could finally lay down his burdens and die the way he should have died, years ago. Callista would know nothing of it until it was too late, if she ever discovered the truth at all, and she would be free from him.

Nothing would ever undo the harm he had done, but perhaps his death would bring peace to all those involved, and honour upon the name he had stolen.

* * *

 

Blackwall returned the next day, once the sun had risen high in the sky, after a night of wandering the streets. He had visited places he had never thought to see again, holding memories from when he was a soldier, and a wretch of a man. When he had been Rainier.

He had left those places behind quickly enough, uneager to be reminded of times long past.

The marketplace was abuzz with activity, and a crowd had already begun to gather around the gallows, although the bailiff had yet to appear. He went to stand in the shadow of a pillar nearby, hidden from sight though he could see everything. He had left his mare and his belongings at an inn, had given the innkeeper a fistful of coins for a room he never intended to use. He would never return, and the man would be a few hundred royals richer.

The stomping of heavy boots from the direction of the jail prompted an excited whisper to run through the crowd, and Blackwall stepped back further into the shadows. The apparent excitement of the gathered men and women disgusted him. Was the end of another human’s life, even a criminal, something to enjoy and cheer at? They seemed to think so.

A small contingent of soldiers approached the gallows, led by the bailiff and surrounding a hunched, dejected man that could only be Mornay. The executioner came last, his unmistakeable mask gleaming ominously in the sun.

The crowd parted before the group, and the guards arrayed themselves around the gallows before the prisoner was allowed to climb the steps. The bailiff was already unfurling his scroll and clearing his throat, and as Mornay faced the crowd, the first insults were shouted, coming from every side.

“Murderer!”

“Traitor!”

“Monster!”

Mornay flinched at every cry before he was forced to his knees. A few rotten vegetables were thrown, but they landed short of the gallows. Blackwall’s hands tightened into fists.

“Cyril Mornay. For your crimes against the empire of Orlais…” the bailiff began. A hush had suddenly descended upon the Bazaar, and time seemed to still.

“For the murders of General Vincent Callier, Lady Lorette Callier, their four children, and their retainers…”

Blackwall saw a group coming toward the crowd from the bridge leading into the city, and felt himself tense. He saw Callista’s eyes scan the crowd, Varric and Vivienne at her side. He stiffened as he realized that, in his haste, he had forgot to burn the report, left it for anyone to find somewhere in the barn. He whispered a curse.

“You are sentenced to be hanged from the neck until dead.”

 A murmur of approval rose from the crowd, and Blackwall saw that Callista had elbowed her way to the first row, her eyes still flitting frantically about. He wanted to step forward then, kiss her, explain, but he knew that it was too late. His time had come.

“Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

Mornay hung his head, silent, and the bailiff nodded to the executioner. Mornay was pulled to his feet, the rope tightened around his neck. Blackwall saw him close his eyes and mouth a prayer. He could not look at Callista.

“Proceed.”

_Forgive me, my Lady._

Three quick steps, and he was in the light, the guards before him reaching for their blades when they saw him.

“Stop!”

He was amazed his voice did not break. Up on the gallows, the executioner looked down at him, one hand on the lever, ready to pull.

“Let him up,” the bailiff said after a moment, and the soldiers parted to allow Blackwall passage. He climbed the stairs slowly, his feet becoming heavier with every step. Exclamations of surprise rose from the crowd, but he refused to look at them. Anything not to see her.

“A Grey Warden,” the bailiff announced. The respect Blackwall heard in the man’s voice almost made him sick.

_No. A murderer._

Gathering his courage before it could fail him, he turned to the assembled populace. The faces turned up to look at him ranged from curious to angry.

“This man is innocent of the crimes laid before him,” he said, careful not to look at Callista. Every voice was too loud, including his own, and every colour was too bright. “Orders were given and he followed them like any good soldier. He should not die for that mistake!”

More whispers. A few shouts. The bailiff stepped closer, and despite his mask Blackwall could tell he was annoyed.

“Then find me the man who gave the order!” he said. Blackwall barely heard him over the shout from below, a cry of sorrow and betrayal.

“Blackwall!”

He had no choice but to look at Callista then, and he saw she had already understood. His throat was raw and dry, but the words came all the same.

“No. I am not Blackwall. I never was Blackwall. Warden Blackwall is dead, and has been for years.”

With every word he spoke, he saw her break, piece by piece, shattered. She would hate him. She would forget him. She would move on.

“I assumed his name to hide, like a coward, from who I really am.” He heard a gasp behind him, and a voice he had not heard in many years. Mornay shuffled forward, his chains rattling.

“You… After all this time…”

_Yes. I am where I should have been all those years ago._

“It’s over. I’m done hiding.”

He could barely breathe. He raised his gaze to the sky, so bright and blue. The summer wind caressed his face, warm and sweet.

“I gave the order. The crime is mine. I am Thom Rainier.”

There were cries and gasps from the crowd, and he lowered his eyes once more to those he had grown to call friends. Varric seemed too dazed to do much of anything, for once speechless, while Vivienne had turned away, hiding her face from his gaze. And Callista…

The blank slate of her face would have been a closed door for anyone, but not for him. He saw more in the curve of her mouth than anyone, and what he saw comforted him.

_Anger, hurt, betrayal, sadness. She will suffer, because of me. But she will heal, someday. She will forget._

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and let himself be guided down the stairs and toward the jail. The crowd parted before him, people shuffling away hastily, as if the stink of death rolled off him, and he could feel their rage, a hot cloud hanging over them, threatening to burst. Yet, they remained silent, watching him.

_Let your anger win. I deserve no less than you gave Mornay._

But none spoke up, and he was locked away.

It was not long before Callista came to him, as he thought she might.

She was her calm and composed self when she appeared on the other side of the bars, but for once Blackwall almost wished she would scream, yell, curse, anything, _anything_ at all that would assure him that she hated him as much as he had hated himself all those years.

But she remained calm, patient. She remained cold.

“I didn’t take Blackwall’s life,” he said finally, knowing she would not speak. She had put her back to the wall across from his cell, her arms folded over her chest, her eyes lowered to the floor. “I traded his death.”

The story fell from his lips, and she listened, unmoving, her stillness somehow encouraging him to speak. She almost seemed a statue, the tapping of her fingers on her bicep the only sign of her attention. He told it all; the offer, the order, the murders, and she heard, neither moving nor speaking all the while.

“When it all came to light, I ran, never looked back,” he stood from where he had been sitting on the makeshift bed, coming to stand against the bars. Anything to be closer to her. _Not that I deserved to ever lay eyes on her again._ “Over the years, my men were captures, one by one, and hanged, one after the other. And I, I was free, pretending to be a better man.”

_Maker, how could I ever do this to her?_

“You lied.”

She stood tall now, her hands curling into fists at her sides and a frown forming upon her lips. It was somehow a relief to see something, _anything_ on her face. Before, she had been too still, too calm. Now she boiled like a volcano, ready to spit flame and ash.

“Yes, I did,” he answered, meeting her gaze. What he saw was a swirl of red-hot rage. “I meant to tell you… but I was afraid. Afraid to lose you. I never meant…”

She turned away, and he fell silent, watching her pace the length of the narrow jail before she settled once more in front of him.

“I took Blackwall’s name to stop the world from losing a good man, and a good man, the man _he_ was, would never let another die in his place.”

She pressed her eyes shut, and for the first time since they had met, her calm was shattered. Opening her eyes, she stepped forward as her hands shot through the bars to grip his collar, slamming his front into the door. It rattled upon its hinges, echoing loudly all around them.

“You murdered children,” she growled. There were tears in her eyes, and his heart tore. “You let others die in your place. You lied to us. You lied to _me._ ”

Her grip tightened. His world was but the vast, boiling pools of her eyes.

“I didn’t want you to find me,” he began. “I wanted you to think I was a noble man, a Grey Warden. I always had too much pride, and I always was selfish. But you found me. You know. This is what I am. A murderer, a traitor… a monster.” The word was a lash, as cruel as a slavedriver’s whip. He could almost taste blood in his mouth. “I would have saved you the pain of learning that all you knew about me was a lie. That you loved a lie.”

He lowered his gaze, but looked up again when he felt her release him. Silent tears slid down her face, her eyes a storm.

“Do you love me?” she asked. Her voice was a sweet song of sorrow. “Did you ever love me?”

He should have lied. It would have been kinder. But he had had enough of lies, and nothing more could be done.

“That I could never have lied about,” he answered, and saw her eyes flutter shut. “I loved you, and I love you still. That’s why… after Adamant… I couldn’t. But I was weak. I couldn’t stay away.” He sank to his knees, bowing his head. The iron bars were cold against his forehead. “I _should_ have stayed away.”

He heard the rustle of fabric, and saw her kneel as well. He almost pulled away, but the hand she placed on his cheek kept him where he was, and he allowed her warmth to seep into him. Tomorrow, he would die. He could allow himself a last kindness before the gallows.

“They’ll hang you,” she breathed.

“I know,” he answered. His eyes were still lowered to the floor. “It is no less than I deserve.”

He heard her lean in, and she kissed his head, a last goodbye. Without a word, she straightened, stepped away, and left, leaving him behind to await his death.


	7. Chapter 7

Dawn never came for Thom Rainier.

As Blackwall lay awake in the dark, the scuffing of boots on stone made him sit up, then stand. By then a familiar figure had appeared on the other side of the bars, a face he had never seen without a smile now frowning at him from the torchlight.

“Unlock the door,” Josephine ordered, and the guard she had brought with her, half-awake, stumbled over his own feet to obey her. “This man in now in the custody of the Inquisition.”

“What?” he heard himself say as the door swung open. He felt manacles clap closed around his wrists as two Inquisition soldiers framed him, ushering him forward into the dimly lit hallway. “What are you doing? You can’t do this!”

His protests were ignored as he was marched outside, into the night. The light of dawn had barely begun to grey the horizon, and the city was asleep, still and silent as it could never be in the light of day. When it became obvious that his escort would remain deaf to his words, Blackwall allowed them to lead him across the Bazaar and to the gates, where another guard waited, along with five horses. He was surprised to see his mare among them, the bag he had brought with him from Skyhold tied to her saddle. She snorted happily at the sight of him, trying to push her nose into his bound hands.

“Nothing today either, I’m afraid,” he told her, gripping the saddle’s pommel firmly as he hoisted himself onto her back. The others around him did the same, and Josephine took his mare’s reins into her hand. They were off quickly.

“Can I at least know what’ll happen to me now?” he asked as his horse fell in step with Josephine’s. The rhythmic clacking of hooves on stone was the only sound to be heard in the pre-dawn gloom.

“As the organization with which you are most recently affiliated,” Josephine began matter-of-factly, “it falls to the Inquisition to judge you. Should we decide that your crime warrants a death sentence, you will be returned to Val Royeaux to await execution.”

“I didn’t know there were other options for murderers,” he muttered bitterly, and she did not answer. Her disdain was plain; he supposed he ought to accept it. Should he survive, few would be those who would welcome him back with open arms; of that he had no doubt.

The journey to Skyhold was long and morose. They avoided the main road and stayed out of sight, and Blackwall thought he might know why; until he was officially sentenced, few needed to know the Inquisition had used its power to have a criminal released in their custody.

The thought of seeing Callista again made the voyage even more difficult; he had thought his days were at an end, in that tiny cell under Val Royeaux. He had said his goodbyes and accepted his fate. The thought of her had brought him comfort, true, but to be confronted by her again, to feel her eyes upon him once more, he did not know if he could bear it. He wondered if she would judge him herself, or if she would defer to her advisors to decide his fate; somehow, he doubted she would.

He had to make her see. Make her see that the only way Lord Callier and his children would ever rest in peace was for him to die. He was ready. He had too many ghosts about him to be allowed to live.

Skyhold was as lively as ever when the group arrived, the high noon sun warming the merchants crying their wares and the training soldiers. But a hush seemed to fall over the courtyard as they realized just who had ridden through the gates, the clash of steel on steel silenced suddenly and voices trailing off.

_Let them stare,_ Blackwall thought as he slid from his saddle. _Let them see me for what I really am._

He could see faces peering down at him from the castle windows as he climbed the stairs toward the great hall. Josephine led the way, and the three soldiers formed a triangle around him. Every face he passed seemed to display a different emotion. Fear, disgust, sadness, anger… but then the doors of the great hall were shut behind his back, shielding him from the world, and he was alone.

They were all there, come to see him kneel. Iron Bull, Sera, Vivienne, Cullen… they lined the walls, some refusing to look at him while others stared openly. The throne at the end of the hall was empty.

“Biting, gnashing, the secret tears free,” he could hear Cole mutter as he passed before him. The boy stared up at him from beneath the rim of his hat, eyes gleaming in the candlelight. “He is free at last, but _she_ won’t let him go. ‘Let me go, let me go’, he says, but she won’t, she _can’t_ , she can’t…”

When Blackwall tore his gaze from Cole and looked up again, the Inquisitor’s throne no longer was vacant. Callista sat ramrod straight, her proud head raised high, her eyes betraying nothing of her thoughts. How many judgements had he seen her pass here? He wondered as he was ushered forward. How many lives taken? How many lives saved? He had never thought to find himself at the other end of the blade that was the Inquisition

His shackles clanked noisily with each of his steps, shattering the heavy silence of the hall before he finally reached the foot of the dais where she sat. An assistant came running, bearing Josephine’s writing tablet. She took it from him with what seemed to be a certain measure of comfort, nestling it in the crook of her arm and climbing a few steps before she began speaking.

“For judgement this day, Inquisitor, I must present Captain Thom Rainier, formerly known to us as Warden Blackwall. His crimes… well, you are aware of his crimes.”

Callista’s eyes were a tranquil lake, empty and cold, staring down at him from where she sat. Sunlight streamed in from the stained windows behind her, giving her an ethereal look; he could almost believe that, should he reach out and touch her, his hand would pass through her, nothing more than a mirage, a ghost.

But he steeled himself, rolling his shoulders as he sneered

_Make her_ see.

“Using your influence to free me?” he said. His voice echoed in the silent hall, almost feeble. “Your reputation will suffer, Inquisitor. Do murderers not deserve death?”

The words were harsh, but necessary. Perhaps she would see reason now, and send him back to Val Royeaux, to the jail he should never have left. It was not too late to allow him to be punished for what he had done, the proper way; with a noose around his neck and a bag over his head.

“You will be judged here, or not at all,” she replied firmly, her throne throwing imposing shadows around her. She looked a true queen right then, he thought. “You have wronged us, and it is our place to judge you.”

Her voice had been as cold and as sharp as ice, and he held her gaze for a moment before bowing his head, awaiting judgement. He heard the rustle of fabric as she stood.

“Thom Rainier,” coming from her mouth, the name was alien, almost a curse. He shuddered. “You were meant for the Wardens. They will decide your fate. Once Corypheus is defeated, you will travel to Weisshaupt and undertake the Joining you were meant to before all this began. You will become the Warden you pretended to be, or die in the attempt.”

He looked up at her, stunned. Behind him, he could hear his companions whispering animatedly between themselves. He bent to one knee. This could work. He could serve others till the end of his days, or die trying.

“To give me a chance to right my wrongs is more than I could ever have asked,” he said. “More than I deserve. I pledge myself into your service, once more, my Lady, until Corypheus lies dead and the world is safe.”

A guard stepped forward and drew him to his feet, unlocking his shackles, and he looked up at her, rubbing his bruised wrists when he was free.

She stood and came to him as the doors to the great hall were opened again, the companions slowly filing out one after the other. She was before him now, suddenly more real than she had ever been, but he dared not reach for her. It was a moment before she spoke.

“We must speak,” she said finally. “Privately.”

He nodded and followed her when she waved for him to do so, opening the door to her quarters and allowing him through. They climbed the stairs in complete silence. When they reached the chamber proper, she immediately wandered over to the balcony where they had spoken that fateful night, many months ago.

‘We’ll regret this’, he had said then. But he knew that he could never regret the time he had spent with her. He was not so sure she felt the same.

He joined her at the balustrade, staring out at the cloud-wrapped peaks around them. A hawk flew high above, screeching as it swooped out of sight. He saw her shake her head, the beads she had tied to her horns that day rattling sweetly, glass and wood glimmering in the sun.

“I don’t even know what I should call you now,” she said. When she looked at him, she seemed lost, scrutinizing him as if she was seeing him for the first time. “Who are you?”

He wished he knew himself. Over time, although he was not sure when the process had begun, his two names had stopped being separate, instead becoming one single person. Thom Rainier was not the man he had been all those years ago, but he could never be Blackwall, either, not entirely, no matter how much he wished he could. She seemed to understand he had no answer to give, and she turned her gaze back to the mountains before she closed her eyes, leaning far over the parapet as she allowed the wind to slash at her face, her long white braid dancing in the wind like a flag left to hang.

“I lied about who I was,” he said, losing his gaze in the white expanse of the Frostbacks, “but I never lied about what I felt. That night, in the jail, I was ready to die, because I had seen you one last time. No matter what I was, or what becomes of me now, right now I am just a man with his heart laid bare. I leave it in your hands.”

She had turned to him, listening intently, and when he opened his mouth to continue, she raised her hand, silencing him. The wind was cold and smelled of rain.

“You were right,” she began. “There’s no future for us. I can’t be with you now.” Her voice was firm, her words, final. Each was a dagger through his heart. “I know what I said, and I want to be with you, always, but this… I love you – and perhaps I always will – but Blackwall… Thom… whoever you are now… the man I see before me is not the man I thought you were.”

She stepped forward, and cupped his cheeks, tilting his head up so he looked at her. She searched his eyes for a long time, or so it seemed. He did not know what she was looking for, or if she found it. She bowed her head, kissing his forehead, and he closed his eyes. Her lips were frozen promises that could never be.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered against his skin. The memory of the night after Adamant, when he had rejected her, flashed through his mind. He had said those exact same words, and they had surely helped as little as they helped him now.

_I should have let her go._

“I’m sorry too,” he answered nonetheless, and he left her where she was, to stare at the frozen mountains. A piece of himself stayed with her, and the path before him was suddenly not as bright as it had been before.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Skyhold was aquiver, the final fight against Corypheus almost at hand, the Inquisition simply waiting for its forces to return from the Arbor Wilds before the plan was finalized and the magister tracked down. He could not hide very long. But all they had for now was the wait, and they all hated waiting.

Blackwall had never liked being idle, but there were only so many people that would spar with him in a day, and his mail could only be cleaned so many times before it began to fall apart. The wooden griffin he had been working had long since been completed and painted, given away to the few children in Skyhold who were overjoyed at their new toy. He had never felt as alone, in his years on the run, as he felt now. Most of his friends had forgiven him readily enough for his deception, but the others… He could hear them whisper behind his back whenever he walked by, could feel their eyes on him wherever he went, burning coals of rage and hatred that bore deep in his skull. They had no qualms about cursing his name and spitting at his feet, yet still he could not blame them. To most, he supposed, he would always be Thom Rainier, and he could do little to change their minds for now.

The entire hold was restless, but none so much as Callista. At all hours of the day and night she could be found walking the battlements, studying battle plans, or even sharpening her blade. Any concern her companions expressed she shrugged off, although anyone believing her to be completely fine was a fool indeed.

They had parted amicably enough, he supposed, but the hole she had left in his heart only seemed to grow every time he so much as glimpsed her. He could only hope that hers had begun to mend already. He knew that, for him, the process would be long, if it ever healed at all.

_I love her. I always will. But she is free now, and so am I._

It was almost winter when the world ended.

Blackwall was in the yard, helping master Denett water the horses when they began to wicker and snort nervously, their hooves tearing at the ground as they pulled at their leads restlessly.  He tuned to the horsemaster, who had come running from the stables at the noise.

“What – “

The ground shook, cutting him off, and a flash of light rent the sky open, the clouds darkening, twisting and swirling in the distance. Green light struck down from the opened scar in the sky, and Blackwall felt a cold hand grip his heart.

“Maker’s Balls…”

The Breach seemed even hungrier than before, pulsing angrily, flashes of unnatural lightning periodically reaching from its depths like grasping fingers. The very air around it seemed thick and heavy, as muddled as the waters of a wild pond. It loomed over the valley of Sacred Ashes, over the ruins of Haven and over everything the Inquisition had lost. It would end where it had all begun.

The stillness that had come over Skyhold was shattered as children started to cry, civilians taking refuge inside while the few soldiers left inside the walls rushed to the battlements. Blackwall left the horses to Denett, sprinting across the courtyard to the great hall, where the others were already gathering.

“Finally!” he heard Iron Bull roar as he came through the doors. “I’ve been waiting for this since we joined up!”

“I would not be so eager, were I you,” Solas said, emerging from the library with Dorian at his side. “The worst is yet to come.”

“All we have done, everything we have accomplished, has led us to this,” Cassandra stood ramrod straight before the group, already armoured and armed, her hands linked behind her back. Her dark eyes swept over each of them in turn, lingering for half a heartbeat on Blackwall before moving on. “We will not fall. We will triumph!”

The cheered at her words, and Blackwall joined his voice to theirs. Everything he had been through and every choice he had made had led to this place, this moment. The end was close.

The door to the War Room opened and Leliana, Morrigan, Cullen and Josephine entered, followed by Callista.

“Our forces are scattered,” Cullen began as he approached, his steps loud on the stone floor. “We cannot wait for them to return. The Breach is even more unstable than before. We must close it again, and quickly. It falls to you, and our Inquisitor, to do this.”

All eyes turned to Callista as she stepped forward. She stood as calm and as tall as an oak, watching each of them in turn for a moment before she spoke.

“Corypheus seems to have taken the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes as his stronghold,” her voice echoed in the too-quiet hall, whispers come back to haunt her as she forged on. “Morrigan will take on the dragon. As for us, we strike at Corypheus, together.”

Blackwall saw her take a deep breath, her stance stiffening.

“We may not all survive this,” she said bluntly, and honestly. “You all knew this when you joined this fight.”

“I want him so stay,” Blackwall heard behind his back. His head whipped about, and he saw Cole lurking in his shadow, his eyes fixed on Callista. “He is sun and shade and home, _home_ , I want to bring him _home_ , to me, always, to where we were before. But it is too late. We will never be here again.”

Blackwall lowered his gaze to the carpeted floor, his fingers curling into fists, cursing the boy. He did not need to be reminded of what could have been. Their time had passed. Whatever he felt now made no matter.

_I love her._

“It was an honour to be at your side, and I am grateful that you always stayed at mine,” Callista said, and Blackwall looked to her once more as Cole went to stand next to Varric. “Now grab your weapons. Corypheus dies today. For good this time.”

“This is gonna be good!” Bull bellowed, slapping an open palm on his bare chest as if to punctuate his words. Blackwall wished he could share his enthusiasm. He left the great hall to make his way toward the armoury, aware of Callista’s presence at his back.

_Blessed are they who stand against the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter._

The words flowed from his memories, familiar, comforting, though he had not set foot in a Chantry in many years. But still the Canticles were etched into his mind from his youth, and the words had always brought him hope in the blackest of nights and the bloodiest of days.

_Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just._

The weight of his armour was equally as familiar, a welcome embrace of steel and leather. Next to him, Callista was splendid in her Silverite plate, the very beacon that would stand against the shadows. The Anchor on her hand was a flame, as bright and beautiful as the high noon sun.

_Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow._

She saw him watching her, and she forced a smile to her lips. The armoury was slowly emptying, only a few squires still lingering behind.

_In their blood the Maker’s will is written_.

As the last soldier left the armoury, he heard her release a shuddering breath, and he turned to her. He saw her strap her greataxe to her back before she faced him as well, doubt plain on her Vitaar-painted face. All pretense of her being calm had left her, leaving her bared to him.

He did not speak, and neither did she, merely presenting her with his open palm. She seized it firmly, mail against mail, only letting go when the door swung open to reveal Cassandra. Without a word, they followed her. 

The people had gathered to see their Inquisitor off, grim faces and hollow smiles that spoke of hearts gripped by fear and despair, though they bowed and murmured her name, leaving a sea of lowered heads in her wake for him to pass through. He was grateful for that much. At least he would not see their eyes on him now, their hatred still pure from his lie. He did not need it now.

The others were already ahorse, all in a row next to the open gate, waiting for them. The horses stomped and snorted nervously from the magic-thickened air, and Blackwall could hear dogs barking madly in the distance. Callista and he hoisted themselves upon their restless mounts, turning to go. A small contingent of soldiers had been allotted to accompany the group, while many more warriors remained behind to defend Skyhold should they fail, knowing full well they would be too few to survive an assault from Corypheus and his dragon. The Inquisition stood to lose or gain everything.

Blackwall cast a last look toward Skyhold, catching many a rider around him doing the same, not missing the longing look Dorian threw toward the library tower. It seemed he had not been the only one to find a home amongst the halls of the keep. They filed out slowly, out the gate and onto the bridge, a heaviness to their gaze and their hands white-knuckled, so tightly they gripped their reins. Before, Blackwall reflected as they kicked their mounts into a trot, Sera falling in step to his left and Varric to his right, he had left a thief in the night, never to return. And now he left a part of Thedas’ last hope, to succeed or die. The task was daunting, the future grim. But as he looked around him, to the faces of those he had grown to know and call friends, he knew that, perhaps, they stood a chance, as long as they stood together.

Fresh fallen snow dusted the well-travelled trail, although they soon had to leave the man road toward the long-abandoned path toward the valley of Sacred Ashes, and there the snow grew deep, thick and heavy. Scouts, huddled around weak fires in semi-sheltered clefts, flagged them down along the way to report what they had seen; Corypheus was alone but for his dragon, and demons had not yet begun falling from the Breach. High above, Corypheus’s dragon could be seen, circling the Breach, slipping in and out of the swirling mass of clouds. An unnatural wind had risen around Callista and her companions, becoming more and more violent the closer they came to the pass that would allow them to enter the Valley. The horses foamed at the mouth, half-mad with fear, kicking and screaming until they simply refused to take another step toward the Temple. The party was forced to dismount and continue on foot, dispatching a soldier to take the terrorized animals back to Skyhold.

The going was slow, wind and snow seeming intent on stopping them as great waves of white frost rose above them, sending a thousand needles to prick at any exposed skin they could find when they crashed down upon them. But as they came over a ridge, the Valley suddenly unfurled itself beneath them, desolate, haunted, only a short stretch of windswept, snow-covered land laying before them and the one who would destroy them all. In the distance, Haven’s ruined buildings could be made out, half-buried, blackened claws of wood and stone that reached from their icy graves like so many unburied corpses. Before them, the temple loomed, empty and cold.

They approached slowly, steel whispering as their blades left their sheaths and the air humming with magic as they prepared themselves. Rubble littered their path, yet hiding Corypheus from view, though the sound of fighting reached their ears, close.

“Tell me, where is your Maker now?” the voice seemed to come from everywhere at once, shaking them down to their very bones as the air itself rippled and shivered around them. “Call him. Call down his wrath upon me. You cannot, for he does not exist.”

There was a flash of green before them, and the all-too-familiar screech of a demon pierced their ears. Callista broke into a run, her companions hot on her heels.

“I am Corypheus! I shall deliver you from the lie in which you linger. Bow before you new god and be spared.”

“Never!”

The voice was resolute, but the cry feeble, and soon followed by a long wail of agony. The group emerged from the rubbles in time to see a terror tear apart a soldier, hissing in glee as it sank its claws into warm flesh. The beast was immediately felled by another man, but the damage was done, and the soldier lay still.

Corypheus towered above them as they approached cautiously, the glint of madness in his eyes flaring to life as he saw Callista. He raised a hand, the cruel claws clenched in a fist, ready to unleash deadly magic, and Blackwall moved forward, ready to throw himself in front of her should he need to.

“I knew you would come.”

The warped, diseased flesh of Corypheus’s face twisted into a deranged grin, and Blackwall felt his breath catch into his throat at the sight, fear twisting deep in his belly like a burrowing snake. An orb floated in the magister’s hand, familiar from the memories they had witnessed in the Fade. The source of Corypheus’s power.

“You have been most successful in foiling my plans,” he said. “But let us not forget what you are. A thief, at the wrong place at the wrong time. An interloper, a gnat. We shall prove here, once and for all, which of us is worthy of godhood!”

“No one is!” Callista shouted in answer. She had raised her axe, ready to charge. Blackwall awaited her command. “Neither you, nor me!”

Corypheus’s laughter was a sour, sickly sweet sound, which reminded Blackwall of the ravings of dying soldier on a battlefield. It echoed across the peaks, lingering long into the silence that followed.

They heard the dragon before they saw it, its fearsome roar shaking the very ground beneath their feet, and before long it was upon them, swooping down from above, its maw a bottomless pit of darkness. They could not retreat without leaving themselves open to the beast’s attacks. Their only hope was Morrigan.

She came when all seemed lost, a fearsome dragon in her own right, wings of midnight blue spread wide as she rammed into the other beast's side, dragging it far from its preys. Their roars were deafening cries of rage and pain as they rose swirling into the sky, claws and teeth flashing in the light.

Sparks of wild magic burst from Corypheus’ fingers as his dragon disappeared into the clouds, and Blackwall felt the ground beneath him crack and shake. It was all he and his companions could do but hold on to each other as they were lifted off the ground, the ruined temple now a floating fortress. Before they could regain their balance, Corypheus disappeared.

“The sheer magical strength required…“ Dorian mused aloud as he picked himself up from where he had fallen, helping Vivienne do the same. They could feel the earth shifting beneath their feet. “I can scarcely believe it.”

“I guess there’s a reason he believed he could walk the Golden City,” Varric answered as he dusted off his coat. “Now where’d he run off to?”

“He can’t be far. We have to find him, quickly.” Callista’s eyes were flitting about, looking for paths deeper into the temple. Not many had been left intact. “Vivienne, Varric, with me. Blackwall, too,” the name seemed to almost catch in her throat, though she caught herself. He ignored the looks the others shot him. “We go after Corypheus. Iron Bull, Dorian, and Sera; assist Morrigan however you can. Cassandra, Solas and Cole, you’ll follow us at a distance. Should any of us fall, you will take our place and fight on.”

There was a strange smile on Callista’s lips, and a glint in her eyes. The Breach’s light sent fantastical shadows dancing upon her face. The heat of battle was already at her blood, Blackwall could tell. He liked her best in those moments when she did not feel the need to guard herself so closely, as bright and wild as a forest sprite.

_Maker, let her live to see the morrow. Should one of us leave this world today, let it be me. Let her_ live.

They exchanged goodbyes before parting, words of encouragement and jests they all knew could be their last. Blackwall was surprised to see Solas approach him. Of all his friends, Solas had seemed to be the one taking the revelation of his lie the hardest. They hardly spoke anymore, where before they could talk and play cards for hours. Blackwall could not blame him; he himself had been amazed the others had even allowed him back into their midst following his lie.

“Blackwa – Thom,” Solas was plainly uncomfortable, and sad, too, though his words seemed sincere. “I simply wanted to say that you will always have my respect. Despite recent… developments, you are a good man. I believe that. And you should, too.”

He offered his hand, delicate and unblemished, like mages’ hands often were. Blackwall seized it firmly before engulfing the elf in a short embrace. Stepping back, he laughed at the mage’s mortified expression.

“And I’m proud to count you amongst my friends,” he answered. “Even though I’m still convinced you cheat at Diamondback.”

Solas gave him a small, sly smile before turning away, and Blackwall could not help a chuckle. A hand landed upon his shoulder, and, turning around, he was met with Callista’s warm gaze. He followed her when she stepped back, away from the others and toward the edge of the ruins. Beneath them, on the ground, Inquisition soldiers were gathering, ready to fight should demons begin falling from the Breach.

“I still wonder,” she began, leaning against a half-destroyed column, “where I would be if I hadn’t been sent on this assignment. I wasn’t even supposed to be here,” she gestured at the temple and the Valley below them, “but a day before the group was due to leave, the commander took ill. I had proven myself time and again, so they sent me… you know the rest.”

He had stood silently next to her, listening, and when she turned to him he could see that her Vitaar was smudged from the wind and snow. The elegant patterns could still be seen, however, framing her eyes and swirling about her cheeks in streaks of red and orange and blue. She sighed.

“Truth be told,” she added, turning back to the Valley, “I can’t imagine a life where I would be away from the Inquisition.” She laughed quietly. “People always say mercenaries have the most exciting lives, but mercenary work is nothing compared to this.”

Pebbles rolled beneath his boots as he came closer to her. His heart beat so loud he wondered if she could hear it. He remembered what she had said, months ago, when he had come back from Val Royeaux, and he respected her decision, but he wanted to be with her one last time. Perhaps he would die here, miles above ground, in the ruins of this place where legends had been forged. Even should he survive, he would be gone before winter’s end, to carry out her sentence.

He removed his gauntlet, offering her his palm. He saw her hesitate before she took off her mailed glove as well, lacing their fingers together. They stood in silence, looking north, toward Skyhold, toward _home_ , dreaming of what could have been.

“I never thought I would live long after Blackwall died,” it was his turn to speak. Her palm was warm and rough in his own calloused one. “A month, I thought, maybe two, and they would find me, hang me for my crimes. But they didn’t. A year passed. Then two. I found a purpose other than saving my own skin. ‘Recruiting’, I called it. I taught peasants how to defend their lands and their families. I thought that would be enough, enough to redeem myself, make up for my crime. But then you came along, and I found a better chance.”

He looked at her and met her gaze. She was attentive, even curious. He could hear the others behind them, laughing, talking. Soon it would be time for war.

“I joined for selfish reasons,” he said. “To save others, yes, but above all to save myself. But what I found amongst the Inquisition is worth more than all the gold in Thedas, and more than I could ever have hoped for.”

_I love you_.

He kept the words to himself, one more secret to add to those that hid amongst the shadows of his psyche. It would not have been kind to tell her now. Not when the end was so close.

He raised her hand to his lips and ghosted a kiss to her knuckles, the memory of the tent in the Frostbacks flashing back for a moment before he was pulled back to the present, and he dropped her hand, putting his gauntlet back on and turning away to join the others.

They became serious again as they split into small groups, and with a last nod they left to find Corypheus. With each new room they entered, they discovered the corpses of scouts and soldiers, burnt or torn apart, their faces forever twisted in fear and pain.

“Must have been caught inside when the temple became all floaty,” Varric said as they sidestepped yet another body, the armour so blackened it was barely recognizable. ”Corypheus found them and…”

The rest was left unsaid, and after a prayer they were on their way.

Corypheus was rather easy to find, all things considered. Standing in the middle of an open room, he was obviously waiting for them; as soon as he spied the top of Callista’s horns, a bolt of lightning sprang from his fingers, only a timely barrier on Vivienne’s part preventing the Inquisitor from being reduced to ash.

“Forward!” the order made them spring into action, and Blackwall was the first to rush forth, shield raised high as Callista followed. “For the Inquisition! For Haven!”

“Let it end here!” Corypheus’s words were swept away by the howling wind. “Let the skies boil! Let the world be rent asunder!”

Blackwall threw himself in front of her before the magister’s next spell could land, deflecting the attack with his shield. It burst against the steel, tendrils of red lightning reaching for his face but fizzling out before they could reach, though he felt the tingle of magic coursing through him, fingers of frost digging their way into his veins. He gritted his teeth and slapped his shield with his blade to catch Corypheus’s attention. This would be a long fight.

_It doesn’t matter. Do it for her. Fight for her._

Blind with rage, Corypheus did not seem to care that Blackwall was the one taking the brunt of his assault, while Callista circled around them, ready to take advantage of every opening. Never was she more graceful than in the midst of battle; one with her blade, she was but a shadow, a blur of silver and red as she painted the stones black with Corypheus’s blood.

Shades rose relentlessly from every shadowed corner of the ruins, swarming over the party. Blackwall could feel their claws scraping at his armour, denting the plate, so relentless was their assault, and their wails were too loud for him to hear anything else. Sweat stung his eyes as he deflected yet another spell from Corypheus and, blinded, he did not see the Shade that slipped between himself and the magister, raising its taloned hand. Before he could react the beast was tearing at his visor, its long claws slipping easily inside the helmet and rending flesh. Blackwall tried to free himself, but another Shade stabbed at his ribs, at the vulnerable mail where the breastplate and backplate met, piercing it easily and screeching in glee as it sunk its claws through skin and muscle. A long, guttural growl escaped him, his vision swimming.

“Blackwall!”

Silver flashed, magic crackled, and he was free, the shades recoiling with a hiss before they vanished back to the void from whence they had come. He staggered, blood dripping into his eye from where the shade had torn into his brow, crimson staining his side as well. There was no time to recover, however, as a flash of red drew his eye, the telltale sign of one of Corypheus’s spells. He raised his shield, but was too slow, and he was sent sprawling to the ground, the sheer force of the impact enough to drag him to the edge of the platform where they fought. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, flame devouring him from the inside out as the magic washed over him. When he opened his eyes once more, Corypheus loomed over him, and half the world was red. The void called behind him, promising a lethal fall. Every breath was painful, every heartbeat slow and too loud.

The magister laughed, mad, victorious, but it ended in a gurgle as Callista leapt toward him, lodging her blade in the junction between his neck and shoulder, cutting deep. Blackwall felt a wave of warm black blood wash down upon him from above when Callista ripped her axe free and, gathering the last of his strength, he tightened his grip upon his own blade before stabbing, up and into Corypheus’s side. The blade caught bone and was wrenched from his grip as Corypheus staggered backwards, staring down at the worn sword buried between his ribs in disbelief as his hand reached for the gaping wound at his shoulder. The orb at his side glowed blood red as Callista charged again, the wave of wild magic that burst from his fingers barely enough to slow her down. Blackwall sat up slowly, ignoring the pain stabbing at his side. The world wavered dangerously, but he kept his eyes open. He could see Cassandra charging from where she had been waiting.

With a swipe of Callista’s greataxe, Corypheus was on his knees, the last of his defenses shattered by the flurry of spells, crossbow bolts and stabs coming from every side.

“Not like this!” He roared, and another wave of magic rolled off him, this time powerful enough to send them all reeling. Blackwall felt himself being dragged closer still to the edge. “I have walked the halls of the Golden City, crossed the ages… Dumat! Ancient ones! I beseech you!”

Blackwall saw Callista pick herself up from where she had fallen, wiping the blood from her cheek where she had been cut, her Anchor blazing as bright as the Breach itself. She was pure steel then, he saw, unbowed, unbent, unbroken, and when she raised her hand, magic crackled in the air. Tendrils reached from her hand toward the orb Corypheus held above him, ethereal claws of smoke and mist.

“If you exist – if you ever truly existed – aid me now!”

The orb shook, and Blackwall could see a look of triumph pass over the magister’s face. It trembled, shivered, then shot toward Callista, smacking into Corypheus’s face as it did so with a sickening crack. Callista stepped toward him, the orb blazing with the emerald glow of her mark, and Blackwall could see disbelief seeping into Corypheus’s gaze, his jaw hanging pathetically from the ruin of his cheek where the orb had shattered bones and split skin. Callista cried out as she raised her hand to the heavens, pure light shooting from her clenched hand and into the hungry jaws of the Breach, so bright it blinded them all. When Blackwall looked again, the sky was whole, and the orb lay shattered at Callista’s feet. He could feel himself fading, toeing the line between wakefulness and oblivion though Varric had appeared at his side, pressing against the wound between his ribs. But his eyes were fixed on Callista as she came to stand over Corypheus. He had to see. He had to stay.

_A moment, nothing more. Maker, I beg you, let me see her triumph._

The temple beneath them was shaking as Corypheus’s power waned. Callista raised her hand, now inches from the magister’s face, and from the very air came claws of shadow and light, gripping and tearing, slowly breaching the Veil. Green light bathed the Inquisitor and the magister as he was drawn into the Fade, and his screams echoed long and loud before the tear in the Veil was closed again, torn apart by the very force he had tried to control. Nothing remained of Corypheus now but his shattered orb, and with nothing holding it airborne, the floating temple fell. A boulder crashed inches from Blackwall’s foot, another sending Varric rolling several meters away. Shadows swam before his eyes, but before the darkness engulfed him he felt a hand clasp his, and a blood-spattered face hovered above him, lost amidst shadows but radiant all the same.

“Blackwall – “

The world came crashing down, and Blackwall felt his last breath leave him.


	9. Chapter 9

Blackwall came to to the rattling of wooden wheels and the snorting of horses. The wind bit at his exposed face like a hungry wolf, and he felt as if he had been trampled by a herd of druffalos.

_Alive. I am alive._

He felt snowflakes melting in his hair as he stared up at the sky; sealed, whole, only a scar left where the Breach had ben. He smiled; they had succeeded.

He felt movement at his side, and a horned shadow rose next to him. Squinting, he could make out Iron Bull’s grinning face.

“Hey, Boss!” he called out. “He’s awake!”

“Bull,” Blackwall said when the other turned back to him. The occasional jolting of the cart sent waves of pain rippling through him, and he thought he might faint again, but he breathed deep and the throbbing in his wounds lessened. “Where are we? Maker’s Balls…”

“The Boss’ll explain,” Iron Bull answered, helping him sit up carefully, allowing him to see more than just the sky above him. He and Bull were sitting in a wooden cart, surrounded by the companions who rode along. They looked tired but whole, exhausted but exhilarated, if the smiles he saw on each and every face were anything to go by. From what he could see behind them, they had just left the Valley of Sacred Ashes, the temple now little more than a pile of stones where before had stood at least a remnant of what had once been. His side was on fire as he leaned back against the equipment that had been placed behind him in the cart, throwing Bull a sidelong glance.

“I know why _I_ ’m in this cart, but what about you?” he asked. “What happened?”

“Corypheus’s dragon happened,” Bull answered, gesturing to his legs. Blackwall craned his neck, and saw that where Iron Bull’s left foot should have been, there was nothing but a linen-wrapped stump. He felt his breath catch in his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he offered.

He was surprised to hear the other laugh quietly.

“Sorry? What for?” Iron Bull answered. “I already lost an eye; a foot won’t stop me. I still have two hands, don’t I? And a solid grip is all you need to swing a sword.”

The hand he put on Blackwall’s shoulder was comforting and warm, and Blackwall smiled to see him so optimistic. But the other’s hand left his shoulder as a horse came to walk next to the cart, its rider the person he had longed to see most.

“Blackwall,” Callista’s smile was as bright as gold, and her cheeks had been reddened by the mountains’ cold wind; Blackwall felt his heart swell at the sight. “I’m glad to see you awake.”

“And I’m happy to see you safe,” he answered. His gaze rose to the sea of rolling clouds above them. “Is it over?”

He had seen Corypheus being torn apart with his own eyes, yet still he needed her to tell him that the sword hanging above their heads had been shattered, that the Breach was closed, and that the war was won. He needed to know that the world could begin to heal and that all could be well again.

“Yes. It’s over,” she answered, and when she held her hand out to him, he saw that the Anchor was black and dead, another scar to add to all that had been lost in this war. He raised a hand to hers, running his fingers over the long line of blackened flesh in her palm. The flesh beneath the pads of his fingers was warm, alive, real. Looking up at her, he saw that the smile had never left her lips.

“What now?” he asked, and she turned her gaze to the horizon, the setting sun turning her skin to gold and her hair to flame.

“We go back to Skyhold.”

* * *

 

They rode through the gates as heroes, the people and soldiers gathering to cheer their names and carry them from their horses. Callista was laughing as two strong lads took her upon their shoulders, and Blackwall heard many a prayer. Even those that had cursed his names were smiling at him now, and he did not know how to feel.

He and Bull were carried to the infirmary, the pleasant heat of the fire they kept burning in the hearth warming their frozen bones as their wounds were cleaned and dressed anew.

“It’ll scar,” the nurse said, examining the cuts on Blackwall’s face. He could feel them pulling at their skin where they had been sewn shut; one on his brow, one running down his cheek and another just above his mouth. “Not too badly, but there is nothing more I can do.”

“Women love scars,” Iron Bull hollered from his bed some distance away. He smiled and winked at a passing nurse, and Blackwall saw the girl blush as passed him by. “Told ya.”

Blackwall’s laughed, but his heart ached. In a week or two, he would be well enough to travel, and then he would leave, never to return, at least for many years. He was grateful for the chance Callista had given him, but it came with a price he had no choice but to pay. The life she had given him back was a life of servitude, and sacrifice, and though he was grateful, he was loathe to leave behind everything he had built amidst the Inquisition. The friends he had made and the things he had seen, he hoped, would keep him warm when the loneliness of a Warden’s life gnawed at him. But he could die a good death, and that was more than he ever thought he would get.

* * *

 

Days went by before he was allowed to stand and walk about on his own. Outside the confines of the infirmary, spirits were high, and it was good to see so many smiles after months upon months of battle and death. However, when Callista had come see him briefly to inform him that the last Grey Wardens in Orlais, who had yet to retreat to Weisshaupt, would arrive before the month was out to take him with them to the Anderfels, she had seemed cold, and sad.

That was still the case when the day darkened, announcing night and the beginning of the small soiree Josephine had insisted on throwing once they were all back on their feet. The noble guests of Skyhold had been invited to attend, as well as the soldiers and civilians, though the latter groups preferred the open air of the courtyard to the brightly-lit great hall, where the Inquisitor and her companions had gathered.

The food was exquisite and the alcohol bountiful, with sweet orlesian reds and dry antivan whites having been brought up from the cellars, as well as ale from the Free Marches. Blackwall was content to sit and watch the others as they talked and laughed and sang, finally free from the burden they had been carrying for nigh on two years.

 _Maker, I’ll miss them all_.

But of course, Callista would be the one he would miss most. She was sitting at the head of the table where they all sat, smiling, listening intently to the stories being told and laughing at every jest. And yet there was something in the way she smiled that darkened her face. Was it the way it did not quite reach her eyes? Or perhaps the frown she hid behind her cup every time she sipped her wine? As he looked around the table, his eyes landed on Cole, bringing the boy’s words before the battle back to his mind, and Blackwall lowered his gaze to his half-empty plate. It would have been better to never let her in, and spare them both the heartbreak. Even to himself, the thought rang hollow and false.

The pink light of dawn was filtering through the windows when he saw her stand and excuse herself. Many had already retired, but those left clamoured for her to stay, though she denied them with a smile. He waited for the door to close behind her back before he stood to follow her, feeling eyes land on him, though he cared little. He still glanced over his shoulder, and saw a knowing smile stretching Sera’s lips, and a sad one Varric’s. He pushed open the door to her quarters, and when he closed it, he was cut from the world.

Every step he climbed pulled at the wound at his side, so the going was slow. When he finally reached the top of the stairwell, the door leading her quarters was open, inviting him further in, a sign she had been waiting. He found her at her usual post, watching the dawn paint the world in blues and purples and pinks, no longer bothering to hide her furrowed brows and her downturned mouth. He hesitated in the threshold leading out onto the balcony, suddenly unsure she wanted him here, but she ushered him forward with a wave of her hand, and he complied. For once, she was the first to speak.

“I wish you would stay,” she said bluntly. She had never been one for games. He had known she harbored this desire, but to hear her say it, out loud, made their inevitable separation seem more daunting than ever before. “But I made my choice the day you came back from Val Royeaux, as you made yours years ago. I suppose it is selfish of me.”

“Selfish?” he shook his head. “My Lady, you have saved the world without knowing if you would live through it, fought battles that were not yours to fight. A selfish person would have run and never looked back. And now, you believe yourself selfish because you do not wish for a criminal you condemned to leave?” he chuckled, although joylessly. “I do not believe that can be rightly qualified as selfish.”

He heard her laugh next to him, though the sound died quickly enough. He looked at her, and saw her take a deep breath, her eyes to the heavens.

“I never thought about running. I understood as soon as I woke in that cell, being interrogated by Cassandra and Leliana, that my life would change. But even in dreams I could never have known how important the Inquisition would be,” she looked at him from beneath her lashes, and he heard her sigh, “or how much the people I’d meet would come to mean to me.”

He saw her hand reach for him, brushing the back of his neck, and he turned to her, placing a hesitant hand on her hip. She drew him to her quickly, bending down to kiss him, the desperate grip of her fingers in his hair and the trembling arm she wrapped about his shoulders making him shudder as she abandoned her calm and composed self for a moment to become the Callista he liked most, the one only those close to her got to see, all fire and sparks when she was usually ice and snow. He was starved for her taste, her touch, _her_ , and he pressed into her, praying for the moment to last forever.

But they soon parted, though she allowed him to hold her for a few more moments before she stepped back, caressing his cheek before her hand fell limp to her side.

“Is this the end?” she asked the rising sun as she turned away.

He reached for her hand, her fingers twitching in surprise before they twined with his. The snow-capped Frostbacks were sleeping giants in the distance.

“The end?” he replied. The sun blinded him, and he closed his eyes. “No. but Maker only knows what the future will bring.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had an epilogue planned, but I really wanted to finish this before Trespasser, so since I can't get th epilogue down pat for now, I'm marking this as complete. Might post it later, it's almost certain to be non canon-compliant.


End file.
